


Through The Fire

by saltnhalo, thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Dom Castiel, Explicit Sexual Content, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mobster Castiel, Mobster Dean Winchester, Omega Dean, Russian Castiel, Russian Mafia, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: When John Winchester strikes a deal with the Alpha of another pack, Dean is the one forced to take the hit for his family. He suddenly finds himself betrothed to the infamous mafioso Castiel Krushnic—an alpha with a terrifying reputation, who commands respect from all those who meet him. Once mated, Dean and Castiel must find a balance in the dynamics of their relationship, or risk bringing the whole of the Krushnic empire to its knees.The challenges thrown their way have to be handled together, for better or for worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original idea: thepopeisdope. Plot and role-play: saltnhalo and thepopeisdope. Fic: saltnhalo.

The entirety of Dean’s life fits neatly into a suitcase and a duffel bag.

That’s only the stuff he’s allowed to take with him, of course. The bare essentials; clothes, the most well-read and loved of his books, and any other odds and ends he can’t bear to part with. Packing up his room had been one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, because he knows that as soon as he leaves…

There’s no coming back.

Dean hunches his shoulders and stares at the ground by his feet. His shoes shine against the faded concrete beneath, brand-new and bought specifically for this occasion. For Dean’s _sale_. The rest of his outfit has likewise been purchased; while the jeans and t-shirt are similar to those he already has in his wardrobe, they’re clean and crisp and _new_ , and the jacket is nicer than anything he already owns.

In some ways, it’s surprising that John is springing the money to dress him nicely for his first time meeting the Krushnic Alpha, but in a situation like this, Dean _has_ to make a good first impression. To an alpha, his looks are one of few redeeming features, given his ‘disobedient’ reputation.

Right now, though, Dean doesn’t have it in him to fight. Usual bravado or not, he’s genuinely apprehensive and scared about what is ahead. There’s also no point in making an already-stressful situation more difficult—which is why he hadn’t protested when John had stopped by his room and grumbled, “Comb your damn hair. Krushnic won’t want you looking like you’ve just been pulled off the street.”

Surely it won’t be long now until Krushnic arrives. Dean’s not sure if he wants to get it all over with, or if he would rather draw out the tiny window of time he has left with the Winchester pack for as long as he can.

Footsteps crunch in the gravel behind him, but Dean doesn’t move. The two alphas flank him, but he can’t look at either of them right now—not when they’ve betrayed him like this, selling him off like he’s a piece of meat, useful only as a bargaining chip.          

Of course, Dean doesn’t _need_ to look at either of him. He can read them well enough with his nose alone. Sam may be doing his best to hide it, but his scent is thick with sadness and guilt, broadcasting his displeasure with the whole situation. Having just turned eighteen, the future Alpha of the Winchester pack is beginning to have involvement in pack affairs, but even he has no sway over their father’s decisions.

On Dean’s other side, John’s scent is flat and impassive, giving nothing away. There’s not even a hint of remorse or guilt, and it turns Dean’s stomach. Trading away one’s eldest son to be mated to a strange alpha _should_ be a difficult decision, yet John acts as though it’s the easiest he’s made in his life.

Dean’s going to miss Sam, and the rest of the pack that has become like family to him, but John?

Dean can never forgive him for this.

It isn’t long before the front gates are pulled open, and a black SUV rolls up the driveway. It’s slow and quiet, menacing, and Dean’s hands tremble at the sight of it. How fitting that the beginning of the rest of his life shows up looking like a hearse.

Sam doesn’t move, but his scent becomes more agitated, so much so that John growls, “Pull yourself together or go inside. I won’t have you making our pack look weak.”

Dean inhales shallowly, and catches the way Sam’s scent falls into a forced, fake flatness. It’s not like Sam at all, and Dean hates it, possibly even more than he hates the note of misery that still underpins his little brother’s scent. No matter what, though, Dean would rather have Sam at his side than hiding away in the house. He needs to have _someone_ with him who’s on his side.

The SUV rolls to a stop in front of them, and Dean knows he’s holding his breath, but he can’t bring himself to let it go. He knows John probably wants him to be lowering his gaze, fitting the perfect picture of a submissive, demure omega, but he keeps it raised, and squares his shoulders. He wants to start this off _his_ way—and he’s never been that kind of omega, anyway. Surely his new mate knows that.

After all, Dean has a reputation.

But he won’t let that reputation fuck things up for his pack. They _need_ this deal—at least, that’s what John says—so even though Dean isn’t going to change his entire personality and go quietly, he’ll do what he has to do. For the pack.

Even if that means being mated to an alpha he’s never met.

Fuck everything about his life.

The driver’s door of the SUV opens and Dean straightens his back instinctively, though he still doesn’t drop his gaze. The man who gets out is tall and broad, but although he looks strong, he doesn’t carry himself with the power or ruthlessness of a pack leader—namely, the _Krushnic_ pack leader. Dean hasn’t met the man (or even seen a photo of him, for that matter), but he’s heard stories of his mate-to-be. _Soft_ isn’t a word in that man’s vocabulary.

While this man doesn’t seem soft, he lacks Krushnic’s deadliness. Dean can tell just by looking at him.

This isn’t him, then. Besides, this alpha smells mated, and when he swings the door closed, the gold of his wedding band glints in the sun.

Dean turns his attention towards the back doors, expecting the alpha to open it for the leader of the Krushnic pack, but he makes no move to. Instead, he faces them with squared shoulders and hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Mr. Winchester,” he greets John with a nod, “my boss sends his regards. Unfortunately, Mr. Krushnic is too busy to make this trip himself, and has requested that I be the one to pick up your son under his orders.”

Dean bristles. Krushnic isn’t even going to dignify them with his presence? Already, Dean is starting to get a picture of the man who is to be his mate. What a _dick_.

John’s hand lands on his shoulder, and his grip tightens. It’s a warning, and while it makes Dean tense up in anger, he knows better than to run his mouth right now. If he embarrasses the pack, embarrasses his _father_ , John will make him regret it for the rest of his life.

He forces his shoulders to relax while the strange alpha watches on, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“I had hoped that Mr. Krushnic would have been able to come for Dean himself,” John says, more diplomatic than Dean has ever known him to be, “but I understand that he is a busy man. You are welcome to conduct the searches I’m sure you have been ordered to, and then you can take Dean.”

It’s strange to hear his dad talk to a rival pack member so professionally—but then, this is an important deal that John has managed to orchestrate, and an important moment _for_ that deal. Ties with one of the most powerful packs in the country will go a long way to restoring the Winchester pack to its former glory, and John would have to be stupid to fuck this up on purpose. He has a role to play just as much as Dean does.

Despite that role Dean is playing, he feels sick to his stomach when the alpha nods and steps towards him.

The pat-down is brief and cursory, but he still grits his teeth at the humiliation of having a strange alpha’s hands on him, like he’s an untrustworthy pup. It’s over before he knows it, though, and then the alpha is stepping back, not having found anything. Dean feels naked without his gun, but it’s not exactly something he can bring into the heart of a rival pack’s territory.

“I’m gonna do a quick search of your bags now. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, if you want to say goodbye.” The alpha gives them a quick smile, then moves away to give them some privacy while he checks Dean’s bags.

It’s a kind gesture, and one that Dean genuinely appreciates. He swallows thickly, fighting to keep his emotions in-check.

He turns to Sam first. No matter what, the beanpole of an alpha is always going to be his little brother, regardless of where each of them ends up, or what packs they belong to. Sam’s scent only turns sadder when Dean pulls him in for a hug, and returns the embrace with a force that’s nearly suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s shoulder. “I wish you didn’t have to… to go.”

What Dean would give to not have to go. But he’s never had a choice. He just whispers back an, “I know,” and hugs his brother tighter.

Eventually, though, they have to let go. Sam swipes at a stray tear, and Dean gives him a watery smile. “See ya, Sammy,” he says.

And then it’s John’s turn.

The Winchester Alpha does nothing more than give Dean a curt nod. “Don’t disappoint me, boy.”

And then Dean is forced to watch as his father turns his back and walks away. Sam gives him one last apologetic look, then hurries to catch up with John, leaving Dean completely, totally alone, forcing down the rage and hurt and betrayal that threatens to bubble up inside him.

After a few seconds, the Krushnic alpha, waiting by the car, clears his throat. “Ready to go?” His voice is gentler than it had been, and certainly not as harsh as John’s. It helps to soothe Dean’s emotions, though not by much.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, his throat tight. His eyes prickle with unshed tears, and he clenches his jaw to try and stave them off. He will _not_ look weak, not in front of someone from the Krushnic pack, who will be reporting to his mate-to-be. “Let’s get it over with.”

Dean’s bags have already been loaded into the back of the SUV, and now the alpha opens the rear door for Dean. “My name is Benny, by the way,” the alpha tells him, his eyes kind. “I’m going to be the head of your security detail. Anything you need, you can just ask.”

The only things Dean _needs_ is to not be bartered away to a foreign pack Alpha to be a kept omega. Not be forced to leave his family and his friends and his home. Not have to mate an alpha almost ten years his senior.

But there’s nothing _Benny_ can do to fix any of that. Dean shoots him an icy glare, clenches his jaw, and climbs into the backseat of the car with as much pride as he can muster. “Suit yourself, _cher_ ,” Benny says, then closes the door behind Dean once he has his seatbelt done up.

Both the backseat doors lock with on ominous _thunk_ , and Dean’s insides twist as he realizes that both windows have been blacked out. There are pinpricks of light coming in from the edges, as well as through the fine grate that separates him from Benny where he takes his seat behind the wheel.

Dean’s palms suddenly feel clammy, and it’s not simply because he’s on his way to meet his mate-to-be.

“Are the windows really necessary?”

“Boss’s orders.” Benny’s voice filters back to him, slightly muffled by the grate. “Can’t risk giving away pack secrets, since you’re not properly a Krushnic yet.”

Dean curls his hands into fists until his nails dig into his palms, and forces his breathing to steady. “And how long until we get there?”

“Can’t tell you that, _cher_.”

Fuck. Just fucking fantastic. He’s on his way to meet an alpha he’s never met, who he’s going to have to eventually _mate_ , and now, to top it all off, he’s stuck in a dark car with absolutely no escape. In the confined space, he can feel the thud of his heartbeat against his ribs, and the scent of his anxiety permeates the car.

 _Calm the fuck down, Winchester. This isn’t the worst situation you’ve ever been in_.

Dean gives a long exhale, and forces his fists to uncurl, rubbing his sweaty palms over the denim covering his thighs. Hopefully he won’t be stuck in here for too long, but whatever happens, he has to keep his head. He can’t look like a weak, anxious mess for the first time he meets his alpha.

The car slowly rolls forward, a barely perceptible movement that nevertheless sends fear sparking through Dean’s gut. Despite his resolve, and all the things he’s telling himself, he’s still scared. There are too many unknowns for him to find any kind of comfort.

Stuck by himself in the darkened backseat of Krushnic’s car, Dean is completely and totally alone with his own thoughts.

At least, now that he’s out of his father’s sight and influence, Dean won’t have to follow his stupid orders any more. For this brief period of time, he has no Alpha.

Dean reaches up and runs his fingers through his perfectly-combed hair until it’s back to its usual style.

It makes him feel just a little bit better.

There’s no way to tell how long the trip takes. When they first set out, Dean does his best to try to remember every turn they made, if only to distract himself from his own head, but they seem to circle back on themselves too many times for him to figure out where they’re going. In the end, he has to give up.

He can’t sleep—he’s way too worked up for that—but he does close his eyes and try to calm himself somewhat. And it does work, to an extent—until he feels the car slow, then stop completely. The engine turns off, leaving only deafening silence in its wake.

Dean’s anxiety bubbles up all over again, and this time it’s not because he’s trapped in the car.

No, it’s because he knows exactly what’s waiting for him outside.

He holds his breath, straining his hearing to catch a trace of _anything_ , but to no avail. The car is too well soundproofed. Regardless, he’s still trying when the locks all disengage, and the door beside him opens without warning.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden flood of sunlight. It takes a few seconds for his sight to adjust, but when it does, he squints up at the alpha holding the door open.

“Alright, kid,” Benny says, giving him an amused smile. “Let’s go. Head straight up into the house, and Mr. Krushnic will meet you there. He’s just finishing up a meeting with one of his brothers.”

Dean glares up at Benny. “Don’t call me _kid_ ,” he growls irritably—though his tough-guy façade is somewhat diminished by the haste in which he scrambles out of the car. Fuck that thing—Dean does _not_ want to get back in there.

Now that he’s outside and his eyes have re-adjusted to the sun, Dean gets his first glimpse of Krushnic’s house—soon to be _his_ house as well. It’s huge and sleek and modern, ten times nicer and more expensive than the HQ of the Winchester pack where he used to live. No wonder John wanted to make a deal with this guy (though that in no way makes up for his father trading him away like some run-of-the-mill asset).

When he turns around to take in the rest of Krushnic’s land, Dean notes a separate garage, a swimming pool tucked around the side of the house, and expanses of green grass and gardens that stretch all the way down to the tall metal fences at the base of the hill. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also a well-guarded fortress.

It may be fancier than the Winchester HQ, but it doesn’t seem like home. He gets the impression that it never could.

Dean has to blink back the tears that threaten to well up for the first time since his father ordered him to pack his bags. Whatever gets thrown his way, he has to take it. That’s what he’s learned from John, in these past few years.

This mating to the Krushnic kingpin shouldn’t be any different—Dean just has to ignore the fact that he’s signing his life away to someone he’s never even met.

The weight of Benny’s gaze burns into the space between Dean’s shoulder blades, and he takes that as his cue to turn and head towards the house. He can’t avoid it forever, after all. The front steps feel as though they take an eternity to climb, but Dean does it with dignity, his head raised high and his emotions shoved deep down, out of sight.

When he reaches the front door, he finds it unlocked, and steps through into the foyer. The interior of the house matches the exterior; there is so much polished marble and glass and metal, and also no sign of personal artifacts—it doesn’t feel like a home at all.

He shouldn’t have expected any differently, based on the vague impression he has of his new alpha in his mind. He doesn’t seem like the type to have family pictures hanging in the foyer. Instead, it’s pristine and cold and _alien_.

Dean finds himself wishing that he had some kind of dirt on his shoes, purely so that he could have the satisfaction of seeing it scuffed across the white marble.

It certainly would have been a good opportunity to see how well prepared Krushnic is to deal with having an omega like Dean in his house.

He’s alone for another minute or so, curling his lip at the expensive showiness of the house’s interior, until he catches the sound of voices. He can’t pick out any of the words, but he can pinpoint the direction they’re approaching from, so his head is already turned towards the door in question when it swings open, and two new alphas step through.

The shorter one falls silent as soon as he sees Dean, his mouth hanging open just slightly, and Dean can’t help but smirk. He knows he’s hot, but it’s never not gratifying to see an alpha’s control switch from their upstairs brain to their downstairs one upon seeing him.

Still, the guy is kinda short, and the light eyes and hair don’t really do it for Dean. Not his type.

The _other_ alpha, though.

Tall, handsome, with piercing blue eyes and a jawline that could cut glass—the man radiates power and authority. He’s giving Dean a cool, impassive look, eyes slowly raking up and down his form, and it’s getting under his skin in a way that Dean is definitely not used to. The sharp, well-tailored suit that hugs the alpha’s body in all the right places only adds to the easy dominance he possesses.

There’s no-one this can be but Castiel Krushnic, his mate-to-be and the Alpha of the most powerful pack in the region.

“Dean. Hello,” Krushnic says, and it takes genuine effort to suppress the shiver that wants to run down Dean’s spine. The alpha’s voice is a deep rumble that feels as though it penetrates to Dean’s very core—and all he’s said so far is _hello_.

Out of all the scenarios he’s been picturing since he first found out about the arrangement, being mated off to a gorgeous alpha with a voice like liquid sex was not something he’d ever thought would happen. Still, good looks don’t necessarily mean that the guy will make a good mate, or even be a good person. Dean clenches his teeth and forces himself to _focus_ , damn it.

Krushnic turns his attention back to the other alpha, speaking a string of words much too quickly for Dean to catch even if they had been in English.

The shorter alpha whistles in response, his eyes still fixed on Dean. “ _Udachi_ ,” he says to Krushnic with a grin, then steps towards Dean. The omega goes tense, his hands half-curling into fists and his scent radiating a ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe, but the alpha gives him a wide berth and disappears out the front door.

Which leaves just the two of them.

Dean looks back at Krushnic just in time to see the alpha roll his eyes. “My brother, Gabriel,” he explains. Krushnic’s eyes sweep up and down Dean’s body once again, lingering for a moment on his too-new shoes before meeting the omega’s gaze. “Take off your jacket and shoes, and then we will move into the sitting room. We have a lot to discuss, you and I.”

Dean considers refusing the order—because that’s clearly what it is, even though he’s been here all of two minutes—but he isn’t looking to make useless waves so soon, so he settles for rolling his eyes and doing as he’s told.

If Krushnic sees the eye roll, he gives no indication. Dean marks it as a private victory, and wordlessly follows after the alpha when he leads them further into the house.

They pass through a few different rooms as they walk, and while Dean doesn’t have much time to check them out, it serves to give him a decent look at his new digs. Each room reflects the same modern, expensive aesthetic of the foyer; while that absolutely isn’t a surprise, it serves to make Dean feel even more out of place. His shoulders hunch as he continues to trail behind Krushnic.

Eventually, they reach a sitting room at the back of the house, furnished all in whites and greys, with a wall-sized window overlooking the backside of the property. Admittedly, it’s a pretty room. Dean could probably take a shining to the view; rolling green lawns and an impenetrable treeline beyond. They both stare out for a few moments, Krushnic likely caught in his head, and Dean mildly entranced.

Then Krushnic looks over his shoulder at Dean and breaks the spell. “Have a seat, Dean.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. It may have been gentle, but it was still another order. He’s beginning to wonder if that’s all his new mate has to offer. Orders and stern looks.

If it is… Dean can’t say he has very high hopes for their relationship.

But no matter how displeased he is by Krushnic’s attitude, Dean knows he is in no place to refuse him. The alpha radiates power, even just standing in front of the window with his hands clasped behind him, and that isn’t an image Dean is prepared to fuck with. Not yet. Not while he has no influence, not while he can’t risk being rejected and sent back home.

This isn’t how he wants to be treated, and he doesn’t have any intention of rolling over just because some alpha in a fancy suit told him to, but Dean isn’t just known for being a defiant omega. He’s _smart_.

And so he grits his teeth and sits himself on the couch. He’s hardly an image of obedience, especially with the way he’s only barely holding back a snarl, but the fact that he does it is all that matters. He won’t let Krushnic accuse him of being disobedient.

Krushnic’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, letting Dean know that he isn’t pleased with his attitude. _Good_. Instead of commenting on it, however, Krushnic steps toward the couch and makes what seems to be an attempt to diffuse Dean’s irritation at its root.

“We need to establish ground rules,” he says firmly. “I am not looking to smother you, Dean, but if you are to be my mate, then you need to respect me. This relationship is not to be taken lightly. The sooner you can accept this, the better off we are both going to be.”

Dean’s upper lip curls in disdain before he can stop it. “Respect is the only reason I sat down, pal, so don’t act like I don’t have it. But I’m not your mate yet, so you’re already about at your limit for bossing me around.”

Krushnic squints at him even more, a faint note of irritation bleeding into his otherwise well-controlled scent. “You may not be my mate,” the alpha concedes, “but as of two and a half hours ago, when you stepped into the car I provided for you, you relinquished your ties to the Winchester pack. You are now under my jurisdiction. You are a part of _my_ pack, and as your Alpha, I expect you to do as I say, without attitude.” He takes another step closer, staring down the bridge of his nose at Dean. “We may not be mated, but that will _never_ happen if you continue to challenge me so uselessly. I will not hesitate to send you back home to your father in disgrace if you continue along in this vein, Dean.”

It isn’t difficult for Dean to imagine the disappointed, disgusted look John would give him if that were to happen. If Krushnic calls off the mating, John will take it out on Dean in every way possible.

Dean grinds his teeth, and drops his eyes to the floor in submission.

Krushnic exhales out through his nose, an almost inaudible sound, then moves to sit on the couch cushion beside Dean’s. He tilts his body toward Dean so that they can talk, and Dean begrudgingly mirrors the position—though he refuses to look back up at the alpha, and glares at the coffee table instead.

Regardless of where he’s looking, he still bent to Krushnic’s will in the ways that count.

“Thank you,” the alpha says. “Are you ready to have this discussion now?”

Dean huffs and folds his arms across his chest. “Guess I have to be.”

Krushnic exhales a measured sigh. “Dean, I am calling this a discussion because it _is_ one. Despite what you may think, I am not looking to control your every action, or dictate your _every_ move, word, or thought. If we are going to mate, then we are going to have to work together.”

Dean blinks at that. He was expecting to be reprimanded some more, but instead… It seems like Krushnic really is intent on discussing things on an equal field. Unless Dean is drastically misunderstanding, that is, or else Krushnic is purposefully leading him into a false sense of security.

He can’t say he’s eager to consider what his paranoia may say about him.

Still, Krushnic’s words seem genuine enough, and the tension in Dean’s posture begins to ease away. “Okay, well. What do you want to talk about?”

“Ground rules,” Krushnic says. He keeps his tone level, easy to listen to; it doesn’t _sound_ like he’s giving orders. “I am willing to allow you freedoms and permissions once you earn my trust. However, you _will_ be expected to respect me. Do as I say. Kneel to me. Fail to do so in front of anyone, and people will think I am weak. If people think I am weak, they target me, they target you, and they potentially even target your family by proxy. Hate me for it if you will, but my business and my reputation are more important than your desire for rebellion.”

Dean can’t help but give an incredulous snort at the mention of _kneeling_ —he’s never knelt for _anyone_ , not even his father. In a lot of ways, John was the only one who could control Dean, but even he knew that he’d never be able to get Dean to kneel to any Alpha. Krushnic is going to get a nasty surprise the first time he tries to order Dean onto his knees.

Still, Dean doesn’t want to start a fight, so he dips his chin in a nod. “You want me to respect you, sure. And what do I get in return?”

Krushnic assesses him for a brief moment before continuing. The alpha idly takes to straightening the cuffs of his suit jacket while he speaks; Dean tracks it, and wonders if it’s some kind of tic. “You will obey me when there are others around, as I cannot be seen to have an unruly mate, but the house and grounds are your space. As long as there is no one else here, you are free to do as you wish, provided you still treat me with respect. There will be guards stationed on the property at all times. Benny is the head of your security detail, and he is also the only guard allowed inside the house without explicit orders from myself.”

The information about the guards is interesting, and Dean files it away for later. He still isn’t pleased about the insistence on _obeying rules_ , but that much, at the very least, can safely be tuned out.

“Additionally,” Krushnic goes on, this time not waiting for Dean’s agreement to move the conversation along, “I am a believer in being true to one’s mate. Whether you want to be here or not, that will not change. You are not in danger from me, nor will you ever be, despite what my reputation may have you wanting to believe. Beyond what is necessary for our mating ceremony, I will not even touch you, if you don’t wish it. I am not the kind of alpha who will treat his omega like property, or anything so barbaric.”

His next words are steel-edged, prompting Dean to finally raise his gaze in surprise. “That said, our relationship is _not_ open. I am not interested in pursuing anything sexual or romantic with anyone but yourself, and I expect the same attitude of you. If I believe you are even so much as flirting with anyone else, there will be severe punishments. Am I clear?”

Dean’s mouth is suddenly far too dry. He swallows hard. “Don’t fuck anyone else. Got it.” The thought of Cas touching him or not, be it for their mating or at any other time, makes his stomach twist too much for that to be a subject he wants to expand upon. He’ll leave it as it is. He snipes instead, giving into the knee-jerk desire he has to gain back some ground, “Are you really that terrible in bed that you’re worried I’ll jump at the chance for better sex?”

Unfortunately—and probably unsurprisingly, too—it doesn’t get him far. Krushnic doesn’t rise to the bait, and the small, forced smile he answers with only serves to make Dean feel a bit like a jackass.

“I am not being unreasonable in my requests,” he says. “I would prefer you work with me to establish an equilibrium in this relationship, but I _can_ use a firmer hand, if need be. My work and my image are more important than preserving the ego of one young omega.”

Dean drops his gaze again and scowls at the floor. Krushnic isn’t being too horrible to him, and it’s probably for the best that he’s responding to Dean’s occasional barbs with patience, if not with kindness, but the threat of a ‘firmer hand’ swiftly reminds Dean of where they each stand. In this situation, he’s just the _young omega_ with an _ego_.

Krushnic may not be the enemy that Dean has been building him up to be in his head, but regardless, the disparity between them is impossible to ignore.

“Fine,” he mutters; he can still feel Krushnic staring at him. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about, or is that all?”

Krushnic shifts, and exhales sharply through his nose. “We still need to discuss the mating ceremony,” he says, and the words send fresh anxiety churning through Dean’s gut. He’s not as good at hiding his scent at Krushnic, and when the alpha next speaks, his voice is clear and sharp. “Dean. Look at me.”

Dean does. He’s too caught up in his sudden burst of panic to remind himself to avoid it, or stick it to Krushnic any more than he already has. Because their mating ceremony—that’s so _real_.

“I am aware that it is a daunting prospect,” the alpha says slowly, eyes never wavering from Dean’s, “but trust me when I say that I will endeavour to make the whole process as easy as possible for you. Please do not work yourself up over it, because I promise, it is not worth your stress. Everything will be fine.” He watches Dean for a long, silent moment, making sure that his words have sunk in. Dean tries to relax, knowing that he needs to so that they can get this whole conversation over and done with.

Krushnic must be satisfied with Dean’s effort, because he continues with, “The ceremony will be held on Friday. Your father wanted it to be within the week or the deal would be off.” His lip curls faintly. “Not that he is in any position to be making demands, but luckily for him I am not keen to prolong this experience longer than we have to.  The ceremony will be a small one: an exchange of vows, and a reception, after which we will retire to the penthouse.”

Dean does his best to ignore that last part—though the official ceremony and the exchanging of vows is only slightly less terrifying.

“The key witnesses will need to ensure that the bond has been completed, but that can wait until the next morning,” Krushnic says. “Do you have any objections to the current plans as they stand?”

 _Only to the whole fucking thing_ , Dean thinks, but he bites back the retort. At this point, it’s only going to make things worse for him. Instead, he swallows, and then slowly shakes his head. “No. No objections. The sooner and smaller, the better.”

 _Friday_. It’s so soon—he only has two days to get accustomed to Krushnic, and to prepare for what’s going to happen at the mating ceremony. God, in just two days, he’s going to be _mated_.

And to this man—this _alpha_ —in front of him. It helps that Krushnic isn’t unnattractive (quite the opposite, really), but at twenty-two, Dean is still too damn young to be signing his life away like this. To a _stranger_.

Not that it was ever his choice to make.

Krushnic, either oblivious to Dean’s train of thought or ignoring the turmoil in his scent, stands from the couch and straightens his suit. “In that case,” he says, “that is everything that we need to discuss at this present moment. I am sure that more will arise in the future, but for now...”

Dean looks up at Krushnic to find him extending his hand, palm-up. An offering. Those blue eyes are still cool and calculating, but Dean pretends, just for a second, that he can see an edge of softness to them.

“Would you like to see your new home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Udachi_ : good luck


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No part of this house says ‘love’. If anything, it gives off much more of a ‘sneeze wrong and you’ll cop a two hundred dollar dry cleaning bill’ vibe. Objectively, it’s a nice place to live, but it has no goddamn soul. It’s not at all the kind of place Dean wants to live—though it certainly gives him a better understanding of the man who’s going to become his mate.
> 
> Unsurprisingly, he can’t say he likes what he’s seeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this chapter instead of studying for my last exam, because I was all uni'ed out, so y'all are welcome.
> 
> Enjoy!

From what he’s seen so far, Dean’s first impression of Krushnic’s home was pretty accurate. The alpha has led him through the most of the lower floor of the house—the foyer he entered into, a lounge area with a TV, a spare bedroom, a home gym. The place may be sleek and modern, but it’s damn near lifeless, and he hates it. Everything is too white, too polished, and the pristine furniture all clearly favors fashion over function.

No part of this house says ‘love’. If anything, it gives off much more of a ‘sneeze wrong and you’ll cop a two hundred dollar dry cleaning bill’ vibe. Objectively, it’s a nice place to live, but it has no goddamn _soul_. It’s not at all the kind of place Dean wants to live—though it certainly gives him a better understanding of the man who’s going to become his mate.

Unsurprisingly, he can’t say he likes what he’s seeing.

Not that he even gets to see all of it. Considering the point of the tour is for Dean to see everything the house has to offer, it’s more than a little irritating when all Krushnic shows him of the downstairs office is the door. The alpha points a firm finger toward it. “You are not to enter this room without my explicit permission, whether I am in there or not.” There’s steel in his voice when he says it, and his eyes bore into Dean; obviously, it’s not something he’s taking lightly.

Dean rolls his eyes and turns away. “Forbidden territory, I get it,” he snarks, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Can we get this stupid tour over with already?”

Krushnic exhales a long breath behind Dean, then steps past him and makes his way back down the hallway without a word. Dean has no choice but to follow, scowling at the alpha’s back.

“This is the kitchen,” Krushnic says as they enter the next room, making a dismissive gesture to the expanse of gleaming granite and stainless steel. It’s a kitchen that Dean would love to get his hands on (and make a total mess of), but Krushnic barely even looks at it. “The chef will be here any minute to begin dinner,” he tacks on, “and from there, we should be able to eat in no more than an hour.”

And with that, the alpha starts toward the next doorway, hardly giving Dean any time to take in the expensive kitchen and dining room (which, honestly, probably cost more than the entirety of the Winchester house), let alone the new information being provided to him. Dean wrinkles his nose at the latter. “You have a _chef_? You don’t eat stupidly fancy shit, do you?”

Krushnic pauses in his trajectory and glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “I wouldn’t call it ‘fancy shit,’” he says loftily, “more like I eat what she cooks me. I don’t believe most of it is too ‘fancy,’ though. I pay her to cook for me because I don’t have the time to do it myself. The time, or the motivation. Regardless…” He turns away, a clear end to the subject. “You can judge her skills for yourself soon enough.”

Objectively, it makes sense that the Alpha of a pack like the Krushnics’ wouldn’t have time to cook for himself, but for fuck’s sake, it’s not that difficult to whip up something easy once in a while. Does Krushnic _never_ cook for himself? Dean’s lip curls in disdain at the thought.

He’d like to spend more time checking out the kitchen (not because he’s a good little domestic omega, fuck that, but he _does_ enjoy cooking, and baking is even better), but Krushnic is already moving on. Dean gives the kitchen one last look, promises he’ll be back to check it out later, and follows Krushnic back to the front of the house and up the stairs.

The second floor is much the same as the first; there’s a second bathroom, another lounge, a second guest bedroom, a sitting room filled with books—most of which are titled in Russian.

But there’s one last room that Krushnic hasn’t shown him yet, and Dean feels his stomach trying to tie itself in knots as they approach it. Krushnic pushes open the pair of French doors, and Dean’s heart drops to his feet.

Behind the French doors is a king-sized bed, square in the centre of the room.

“Our bedroom,” Krushnic says, somewhat redundantly—though Dean was still kind of holding out on the hope that he wouldn’t have to sleep here, that he’d get a separate bedroom. No such luck, apparently. Not that that means he’s going easily.

“I’m not sleeping here,” he declares, folding his arms across his chest and scowling at the bed. Admittedly, it’s a pretty nice room—large, neat, airy, decorated in soft creams and greys and well-lit by the huge window that overlooks a balcony. From the looks of it, it’s even got its own ensuite and walk-in closet. Under different circumstances, he might have liked it.

But the circumstances aren’t different, and Dean hates it on principle. His scowl deepens.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Krushnic’s lips twitch up in the hint of a smile. “You _will_ sleep here,” he corrects coolly, as though Dean’s stubborn petulance hardly even fazes him. “It will be the only bed you will have access to. All of the other bedrooms will be locked at night, if there is going to be temptation for you to go into one of them instead. If you still try to object, I have no qualms with locking you _in_ this room.”

Dean’s palms feel clammy, and he swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. That is definitely _not_ what he wants. There’s no way he could ever get to sleep, not when he knows that he’s trapped, and that there’s no way out.

“You will have your side of the bed,” Krushnic continues, “and I will have mine. My promise to not touch you stands, even here. You can sleep on the floor, if you truly wish, but you _will_ be sleeping in here.”

Dean forces himself to calm, to _breathe_ and to keep his scent even. He must catch it in time, because Krushnic doesn’t comment, or even so much as look at him sideways. The alpha only continues to regard him with that challenging look in his eye.

Dean doesn’t want to give Krushnic the satisfaction of knowing that he’s won, so he clenches his jaw and stays quiet. It’s clear that Krushnic has no qualms with forcing Dean to obey, which means the threat of locking Dean into this room was not made idly. This is a man who is used to being obeyed, and will go to any length to get it.

It makes Dean feel sick to his stomach.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Krushnic says, when it’s clear that Dean isn’t going to respond. He gives the bedroom one last look before turning away. “I will leave you to settle in. Benny will bring up your bags, and you can unpack and have a look around at your leisure. As I said earlier, dinner will be ready soon. I will let you know when it is time to eat, so that you may join me.”

And with that, Krushnic turns his back on Dean, who watches him until he’s disappeared down the stairs, out of sight.

For the first time since stepping foot in this cold, bleak house, Dean is alone.

He lets the façade slip from his shoulders, the quiet fire disappearing and leaving nothing but pure, bitter sadness in its wake. This is his home now. His bed, that he’s expected to share with an alpha he hardly knows, a man he has no interest in despite being betrothed to.

Dean steps into the room, leaving the doors open behind him. The carpet is soft beneath his socked feet, the bed more comfortable than anything he’s ever felt as he sits down on the end. But...

He misses his old bed, in his small room back at the Winchester pack. He misses the rickety dresser that had belonged to his mom, and his shelves filled with books and movies. He misses the familiar scents that were practically infused in the house itself, misses the warmth, the _security_.

Apart from the single bookcase set into the wall, there’s no evidence that this is Krushnic’s bedroom. Even his nightstand only holds an alarm clock and a single book, both of which are set at perfect right-angles to the edges of the table. Dean leans closer, somewhat curious about the one book that’s been given a special home. It looks as though it’s been well-read and well taken care of, but the title is in Russian; Dean deflates, his interest dissipating.

The sunset outside casts the bedroom in orange-gold hues, and Dean stares out through the window at the grounds and the forest beyond as he loses himself to his thoughts.

What’s happening back at the Winchester HQ, he wonders? What are John and Sam doing? He doesn’t doubt that Sam misses him—it definitely feels like there’s a piece of himself missing, not having that kid around for the first time in eighteen years—but _John_.

Does John feel _any_ remorse for what he’s done? Does he feel guilty about trading away his eldest son, simply to try and gain more of a foothold in the area, to ally himself with a more powerful pack in the hopes of gaining some for himself?

All of a sudden, Dean is gripped by the urge need to be away from this bed, this room that he’s forced to share with a man he doesn’t want to mate. He needs air, and he lurches to his feet and over to the balcony. The doors aren’t locked, and he pushes one open and staggers out onto the tiles.

It’s cooler out here, the wind ruffling his hair as the sun sinks below the horizon and takes its warmth with it. He wraps his fingers around the metal railing, letting the cold sink into his skin while he closes his eyes.

Out here, it doesn’t smell of a foreign home and a foreign alpha. Krushnic’s gunpowder and whiskey scent is _everywhere_ in that house, and it sends Dean’s head spinning in a way that’s _too damn much_ for him. The evening air clears Dean’s mind, and he inhales a long breath, then releases it slowly.

There’s nothing he can do—he’s stuck here, in this mess, whether he likes it or not. But this small bit of freedom that he has right now… it’s an escape. As long as he’s out here, watching the sun set over the horizon and breathing fresh air, he can pretend that what waits for him inside is only a bad dream.

He lowers himself down to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and leaning against the rails.

For now, he can close his eyes, feel the breeze on his face and inhale the untainted air, and _forget_.

~

Dean loses track of time, lost in his own thoughts as he is. He has no way of telling how much time has passed by the time the doors to the bedroom open behind him.

The small sound pulls Dean out of his headspace, and he blinks his eyes open. The grounds beyond the balcony are dark now, the last of the sun’s rays nothing but a faint glow on the horizon, and the stars sparkling to life overhead.

It’s _cold_. He can’t quite feel his toes, and he wiggles them as he waits for Krushnic to speak.

The silence between them stretches out, until finally, the alpha says, “It’s time to eat.” There’s still an authoritative edge to his voice—it’s probably a permanent part of his demeanor, by this point—but he keeps his tone low, as though he doesn’t want to disturb Dean in wherever his mind has gone.

It’s too late for that, but Dean does appreciate that the quiet that was keeping him so calm hasn’t been completely shattered.

“Are you going to be joining me, or would you prefer to stay here for a bit longer?”

At least he’s getting options now. Krushnic had said he didn’t intend to control every single aspect of Dean’s life and his actions, which looks to have been true, but it still feels like a mockery of free will when he’s trapped in this house, in this mating, with no way out.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m gonna stay here,” he mumbles, resting his forehead against one of the cool, metal rails. He’ll stay out here until it gets too cold, even though he’s already feeling it. The discomfort is worth it, if it means he doesn’t have to eat with the alpha.

Again, Krushnic is silent—until the wind picks up again, enough to make Dean shiver and wish he had his jacket with him. His toes are completely numb.

“Dean,” Krushnic says—his voice has gone even softer, as though he’s making a conscious effort to soothe the omega. “Will you come inside? I can see that you’re cold. Perhaps you should take a warm shower, or a bath. I will put your dinner in the fridge until you are ready for it, if you would prefer to eat later, but you will bring yourself to harm if you stay out here for too much longer.”

Is that why Krushnic is pretending to be concerned? He doesn’t want Dean to ‘harm’ himself? He’s perfectly capable of making his own choices—and while the idea of a warm shower sounds fantastic, now that the idea has been put in his mind, agreeing to that would mean agreeing to Krushnic’s request. He sure as hell doesn’t want to do that, even if the soothing rumble of Krushnic’s voice may be partially tricking Dean’s omega side into thinking that the alpha is to be trusted and obeyed.

“Are you still here?” he snaps defensively, turning to glare up at the alpha. “I told you, I’m not coming in right now. Put my food in the fridge or whatever, I’ll eat it later.”

Krushnic doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Dean doesn’t have much more resistance in him—he’s getting too cold for that—but he really doesn’t want the alpha to know that he’s won.

After a moment, Krushnic sighs. “I am not your enemy, Dean,” he says. “There is no prize to be won for defeating me, no victory that you are striving toward. I am prepared to be a good mate, if you can be the same in return. But you’re going to have to give me a chance to show that.”

He takes a step back into the bedroom, giving Dean room to pass. The light from inside haloes his silhouette. “Come inside and get warmed up, and I will put your food in the fridge. I know you must be hungry, though, so you shouldn’t delay for too long.”

Dean’s traitorous stomach grumbles at the mention of food, and he swears under his breath. For a second, he weighs his options, but in the end, turning himself into an icicle in a pointless act of rebellion isn’t going to get him anywhere. “Fine,” he mutters, uncurling and slowly rising to his feet. Fuck, he’s colder and stiffer than he’d originally thought.

“You go eat,” he mumbles as he steps inside, careful to avoid Krushnic since he’s still standing just inside the door. “I’m gonna shower, I’ll eat later.” God, it already feels so much better inside the house, as the alpha closes the doors behind him.

“Your food will be in the fridge,” Krushnic tells him with a nod that Dean sees in his peripheral vision—he doesn’t want to look at him right now. It’s already frustrating enough that he’s had to comply, even though Krushnic was definitely right about it being too cold to stay out there, so he’s going to avoid the alpha as best as he damn well can.

Right now, all Dean wants to think about is the hot shower awaiting him in the ensuite bathroom. He locks himself in without another word to Krushnic, and quickly turns on both the shower and the fan set in the ceiling to create sound to drown out the rest of the world.

The bathroom, once Dean actually stops to take it all in, is amazing; all marble and glass with a Jacuzzi in one corner and the spacious shower in the other. The mirror spans the whole of the opposite wall, with two separate sinks set in the vanity. One for each of them, Dean supposes, though why they can’t just share one like normal people he doesn’t know. Fuckin’ rich people.

That’s not what’s important right now, though. He’s quick to shuck off his clothes, leaving them in an untidy pile by the Jacuzzi before stepping into the shower. The water is nearly scalding against Dean’s skin, and he groans in satisfaction, letting it warm his cold limbs. It feels _amazing_ , the water pressure perfect on the muscles of his shoulders and back as it works to unwind the tension he’s been carrying.

He spends as much time in there as he can, scrubbing at his skin with the soap that he finds on a built-in ledge in the shower, and only accepts that he has to get out when his fingers _really_ start to prune. Eventually, he shuts off the water and steps out of the huge glass cubicle, and goes hunting through the vanity for a towel. He finds them easily, and matching the theme of the house, even the towels are the fucking softest things he’s ever touched. Dean can’t help but let out a content sigh as he dries himself off and wraps his towel around his waist.

Regardless of the towel hiding his nudity, though, Dean isn’t too keen on running into Krushnic right now. A quick peek out of the bathroom reveals an empty bedroom and still-closed doors. His bags have been left at the foot of the bed, and Dean rifles through them for a pair of pajama pants and a soft, loose t-shirt. _These_ are clothes he’s had for years, unlike the brand-new outfit he’d had to wear to get here. They smell like him, and they smell like _home_.

Dean buries his nose in the fabric of his shirt for a second, then pulls it on. The pajama pants quickly follow—even though their mating is only a few days away, something Dean really doesn’t want to think about, he isn’t eager to spend any more time exposed than he has to while in Krushnic’s space.

Now dressed, his stomach rumbles again. As much as he wishes he could avoid it and stay sequestered here in the bedroom… He has to go downstairs for food at some point. It may as well be now.

The house is quiet when Dean opens the bedroom door, and Krushnic is nowhere in sight. With the coast clear, he makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Krushnic isn’t in here either, but if Dean is quiet, he can hear the alpha’s voice emanating from the next room. He’s speaking in Russian, so there’s no point in eavesdropping, and disturbing him if he’s speaking to someone will get him nowhere. Besides, Dean would much rather take the opportunity to look around the kitchen, since he wasn’t able to earlier.

Surprisingly enough, there’s a decent variety of ingredients in the kitchen. The chef must store all her ingredients here instead of bringing them with her each time, which makes sense, and also means that Dean can cook for himself if he feels like it.

And, as promised, Dean’s dinner is sitting on a plate in the fridge. He puts it in the microwave to heat it up and props a hip against the counter while he waits out the timer. The meal is a simple one, just steak and cubed potatoes, but that just makes him all the more eager to eat it. Maybe he won’t mind this _personal chef_ thing after all.

When the microwave beeps, Krushnic briefly pauses in his conversation. Dean tries not to think about why, and instead takes his plate back out of the microwave. He hopes to god he’ll be able to finish it before the alpha is done with his call, or whatever the hell it is he’s doing, so that he can disappear back upstairs. If he’s lucky, he might even be able to make himself a bed on one of the couches in the sitting room before Krushnic can stop him.

Dean sighs and goes to the table, where there’s still a place set for him. Even reheated, his potatoes and steak are fucking incredible, and while Dean fancies himself a pretty decent cook, he might actually be able to learn a thing or two from this chef.

He’s only halfway through his meal when Krushnic walks in.

Dean goes very still, fork halfway to his mouth and his eyes fixing on Krushnic as the alpha makes his way to the cabinet and pulls out a decanter of whiskey. It’s only as he’s opening a cupboard for a glass that he turns to look over his shoulder at Dean. “Any interest in a glass?”

He sounds tired, and Dean lowers his fork. He’s still trying to get a feel for this man, of where they stand, what Krushnic will tolerate and what his attitude towards Dean is.

“There should also be beer in the fridge, if you’d prefer that. My brother’s brand; I couldn’t tell you what it is.”

Dean had seen that when he’d been poking around in the kitchen. He shakes his head. “Whiskey’s fine,” he says, and turns his attention back to his plate. He busies himself cutting his steak up into smaller and smaller pieces, though his mind is focused wholly on Krushnic.

Finally, he sets his cutlery down and looks back up. “Rough phone call?”

The alpha replaces the decanter and carries the two glasses over to the table. He sets Dean’s glass down by his plate, then leans his hip against the table and sips at his own. For a few long moments, he doesn’t reply. Dean wonders if he’s overstepped.

But then Krushnic sighs, and lowers himself into the chair adjacent to Dean’s. “One of my brothers,” he admits, rubbing a palm over his face and meeting Dean’s gaze. “I’m always very busy, you’ll soon realize. The Krushnic pack is at the top because we work very hard to be here. Someone always wants to take us down. Combine that with what I assume is the standard array of family drama, and…”

He trails off and looks away, then takes a long drink of his whiskey.

The statement is more than Dean had been expecting, so he nods and doesn’t push for more. The whiskey sits, golden and inviting, in his glass, and he sips at it between bites of his dinner. It warms him from the inside, and soon enough, his plate is completely empty.

Dean lifts the glass to his lips and tips his head back to swallow the last of the whiskey, then sets it back down on the table.

The kitchen is silent, both occupants caught in their own thoughts.

“Thanks,” Dean says eventually, idly spinning the glass where it sits on the tabletop.

Krushnic looks up, then, his eyes focusing on Dean. “You’re welcome,” he says in return, then drains his glass and stands. “Put your plate in the sink, and then come upstairs.”

The instructions are still firm, but his tone is little softer than it had been earlier, Dean thinks. Either way, he’s too damn tired to rebel against it. The alpha has already left his glass in the sink and is halfway out of the room, but Dean nods regardless.

For a moment, he remains sitting at the table, alone and unmoving. Tonight is his first night with his future mate, as a Krushnic, away from his home. It’s difficult to force himself up from the table and make the journey upstairs. It’s only the thought of Krushnic coming back down to find out why Dean has disobeyed his order that is enough to move him.

He leaves his dishes in the sink beside Krushnic’s and goes upstairs, but pauses in front of the French doors that lead to Krushnic’s— _their—_ bedroom. He doesn’t want to go in, but he also doesn’t want to face the consequences of disobeying, not right now.

The left of the doors has been left ajar. Dean takes a deep breath to steel himself, then pushes it open and slips inside.

The sight that greets him is… well. Mundane, to say the least.

Krushnic glances up at him from where he’s sitting up on his side of the bed, the book from his nightstand open in his lap. In its previous by the alarm clock now sits a black handgun, but that’s not exactly a new thing for Dean. If anything, he feels naked without his own, but he understands that there’s no way Krushnic would have allowed him to bring a weapon into his house.

What’s _not_ so normal for Dean is the alpha’s shirtlessness. It’s embarrassingly difficult for him to keep his eyes off Krushnic’s bare chest, especially in the low, soft lamplight. Even with the distance that is still between them, Dean can see a number of scars marring the alpha’s skin—a long incision line across his abdomen, what looks like burn marks below the right side of his ribcage, a pair of bullet marks at the juncture of his left shoulder. Every mark reiterates how little Dean knows about the man he’s now living with.

Dean does his best to concentrate on the small, pleased smile the alpha is giving him. He gets a nod of approval before Krushnic turns his attention back to his book, and Dean takes the opportunity to grab his toothbrush out of his bag and disappear into the bathroom.

When he returns, Krushnic is still reading, the lamp still on. For a brief moment, Dean seriously considers sleeping on the floor, simply for the sake of rebellion—but in the end, he’s too drained to pass up on the comfort of the bed right now. He keeps his gaze low as he pads across the room and slips beneath the covers on the opposite side to Krushnic; his own nightstand feels uncomfortably empty.

Although he puts as much distance between himself and Krushnic as he can, the bed is large enough for him to be okay relaxing, at least somewhat. They may be between the same sheets, but both the distance Dean has managed to claim and the pajamas he’s protected by help him to feel in-control of his situation. At least, as much as he possibly can, given the circumstances.

Still, he growls in warning, “Touch me and I’ll break your hand.” He puts his back to Krushnic and pulls the covers up over his shoulders. It’s an empty threat and they both know it, but it makes Dean feel just a little more in control.

“I’m not a rapist,” is all that Krushnic says in response. At least it’s reassuring to know that despite the power he wields over Dean, he won’t ever push it that far. Dean definitely could have been mated off to a worse alpha.

Only a few more minutes pass before Krushnic flicks off the lamp. The alpha gets comfortable beneath the covers and says into the darkness, “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean stays silent.

He closes his eyes and curls further in on himself, and even then, it takes a long time for an uneasy sleep to find him.

~

When Dean wakes the next morning, the bed is empty.

The covers on Krushnic’s side are rumpled, and his scent is growing faint. When Dean reaches across the mattress, he finds that it’s cold. The alpha has been gone for a while.

In hindsight, he doesn’t know what he was expecting. Like Krushnic had said the night before, he’s a busy man, and probably has to get up early every morning. The alarm clock on his nightstand tells Dean that it’s almost nine.

Still. He’s not sure what’s worse, having to endure an awkward morning with his mate-to-be, or waking up alone in a strange house on his first full day here.

Either way, there’s no point thinking about it too much. He can’t change it. Instead, Dean rubs at his eyes, takes a few more minutes to wake up properly, then rolls out of bed.

Downstairs, there is a stack of pancakes and a note waiting for him in the kitchen. The pancakes look delicious—that chef again, Dean has no doubt—but the note makes him frown.

_Back by dinner. Pamela will prepare you breakfast and lunch. Don’t cause trouble._

It’s signed with a scribble that vaguely resembles Krushnic’s name, but considering there’s only one person it could be from, it’s mildly amusing that he made the effort.

Dean scrunches the paper in his palm and tosses it into the bin. Leaving him a _note_ like he’s a damn _child_ , not even giving Dean the courtesy of telling him to his face. Where the hell did he even go, leaving his new mate-to-be home alone for the day?

The pancakes go some way to improving his mood, though, since they turn out to be just as high quality as last night’s dinner had been. He really will have to pick that chef’s brain. But with the pancakes gone and the house empty, Dean is at a loss for what to do.

Back at his old pack, he always had Sam to hang out with (if he wasn’t helping John with business), or there were other pack members to talk to. Right now, it’s just him, stuck in a house that doesn’t yet feel like his own.

He’ll just have to find some way to entertain himself, or else he’ll end up going crazy before Krushnic even gets home. He really doesn’t do well with sitting around with nothing to do.

He browses through Krushnic’s books, first and foremost, but disappointingly few of them are in English. He tests out the streaming services on the upstairs TV next, which at least occupies him for a while longer. Not even that can keep him entertained forever, though, and after a while, he moves on.

He hasn’t had much of a look at all of the grounds yet, since he was stuck in the blacked-out car on his way in, so Dean decides to go for a run. Two of the guards stationed around the house peel off when they see him, and follow him at a distance as he runs through the gardens to the forest, then follows it along its edge until it meets the fence. He would rather not have to be babysat during his run, but there’s no way they’re going to stop following him, so Dean tries his best to ignore them and keeps running.

He follows the fence around until he reaches the front gate where he must have come in yesterday—locked, of course—then jogs back up the driveway to the house. By this point, he’s already sweaty, so he extends his workout and adds some body weight exercises. A car rolls up the driveway while he’s working out, and he spares it enough of a glance to see a dark-haired woman climb out, but since it has to be about time for lunch, he deduces that she must be the chef, so he doesn’t pay it any more attention than that. Instead, he continues his pushups, finally flopping onto the grass when his body insists it’s had enough.

Even if Dean is only supposed to be a trophy mate, he’s gotta keep up his skills and his fitness. Just in case. It was how he was raised, after all, and it’s almost second nature by this point.

Once he’s gotten his breath back, he decides to do a little more exploring—though first he detours back into the house to find a bowl of pasta waiting for him, which disappears in what feels like record time after how hungry his run has made him.

The garage is the place he’s most curious about, since Krushnic is bound to have some beautiful cars if the luxury of his house is anything to go by. Disappointingly, though, every single door into the building is locked.

He frowns. Definitely something to ask about later.

At least the pool is such more easily accessible. Not really giving a fuck about the ever-present guards any more, Dean doesn’t hesitate to strip down to his boxers and dive in. The cool water feels wonderful on his sweaty, sun-warmed skin, and he does a few slow laps before just letting himself float, eyes closed.

By the time the sun starts to dip towards the horizon, Dean is sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water, and there’s still no sign of Krushnic.

That works for Dean, though—the purpose of the day had been to keep himself occupied and explore, so that he doesn’t have to think about Krushnic or the upcoming mating ceremony. So far, he’s succeeded; in this moment of stillness and inertia, he tries to keep his mind blank, closing his eyes and sighing out a long breath.

If only tomorrow would never come.

After a little while, the air begins to cool against his damp skin, and Dean takes that as his cue to head inside. He didn’t have the forethought to grab a towel, but he’s not too wet any more, and it’s not like he really cares if he’s leaving wet footprints through Krushnic’s house.

Dean’s growling stomach reminds him that it’s been a while since lunch, and he stops in the kitchen. Even though his boxer shorts are still wet and clinging and he desperately needs a shower to get rid of the chlorine, food comes first.

He’s halfway through making himself a sandwich when he hears footsteps on the tiles behind him. The _fucking_ guards.

“What, are you allowed in the house now?” he snaps, sick of being followed around, but the rest of his rebuke dies on his tongue as he turns around.

Krushnic is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, hand on the knot of his tie and one eyebrow raised. His eyes track down Dean’s form for a second, then return to his face. “Not a fan of your guards, I take it?” he asks, and there’s definitely a hint of wry amusement to his voice.

It helps to settle Dean, who had gone tense as soon as he realized who he was standing in front of, still dressed only in his wet underwear. When Krushnic moves, it’s not towards Dean, but over to the sink, and he feels more of the panic dissipate from his system. The alpha is keeping true to his word.

“You kept them busy, I heard,” the alpha continues as he washes his hands, shooting Dean a sidelong glance that has the corners of his eyes crinkling just slightly.

Dean huffs, and turns back to his sandwich. “I don’t like them at _all_ ,” he mutters as he finishes constructing his snack. “They’ve followed me fucking everywhere, it’s like being on Big Brother.” He shouldn’t be surprised that the guards have been updating Krushnic on his movements, but it’s still frustrating to know that the alpha knows what he’s doing every second of the day, even when he’s not here.

“They followed you everywhere for your own safety,” Krushnic replies. He shuts off the water and rubs idly at the knuckles of his right hand, dark with bruises. “They’re here to ensure that you are not threatened in any way, as well as to make sure you yourself are not a threat. I run a very tight operation, so unfortunately, no matter how much you dislike them, their presence is not negotiable.”

Dean rolls his eyes—it’s all stuff he’d assumed, but it’s still annoying to be lectured about it like a pup—and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Aside from the guards,” Krushnic says, changing the subject as he skirts around Dean to get to the fridge, “did you enjoy your workout? The grounds are good for it, and lord knows the pool doesn’t get much use.”

Dean keeps a careful eye on the alpha as he pulls a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge, but ultimately decides there’s no harm in replying. “It was good,” he says around a mouthful of half-eaten sandwich, then chews a couple more times and swallows. “You don’t use the pool? We didn’t have one back home—or any of this nice shit, really. Dad wasn’t one for extravagance, even when the pack was doing better. It’s pretty cool to just be able to go for a swim.”

Krushnic pauses, his head cocked to the side as though he’s thinking—or analyzing Dean’s answer—then shrugs. “I don’t have time to swim, or really the excuse. There is always something else to be done. I’m glad that you enjoy it, however. As long as someone does, it is worth it.”

Dean is going to have to be more careful about what he says about the Winchester pack, but there’s nothing he can do about that now. It wasn’t too much of a slip-up, but enough that Krushnic clearly found something interesting in his comment.

He changes the subject. “I’ll put it to good use for you. Speaking of—what’s the deal with the garage? I couldn’t get in, what toys are you keeping there?” Hopefully he’ll be allowed in to have a look at Krushnic’s cars—or else he might just have to pick the lock and see how far he can get with the guards.

“The garage?” Krushnic echoes, moving to get himself a glass of water from the dispenser on the fridge. His amusement grows more pronounced, coloring his scent. “The only toys in there are the sharp kind.” He turns away from the fridge and takes a drink of his water. “Do not go into the garage,” he continues, and now his tone is sharper—a warning. “I know that you aren’t exactly new to this style of life, but there is still nothing you would want to see out there. I keep my fun ‘toys’ in other places, for the most part.”

And with that, the alpha breezes past Dean. “I will be busy this evening,” he says over his shoulder, “making arrangements for tomorrow. Pamela will be here soon to begin making dinner, you might want to dress before then. I will try to rejoin you in time to eat.”

And then he’s gone, and Dean is left staring after him, reeling at the dismissal.

But really, what had he been expecting? For Krushnic to actually hang around, now that he’s finally home? Maybe spend some time getting to know the guy he’s going to have to mate tomorrow? Considering he’d woken up to an empty bed this morning, Dean shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

He’d never thought he’d be _disappointed_ by being left alone all day.

Dean shoves down the emotion, clenches his jaw, then turns and heads upstairs.

Krushnic doesn’t appear after Dean has showered, or during dinner, despite the attempt he said he would make. The chef—Pamela—disappears somewhere with his plate, presumably to his office, and Dean is left to eat by himself. He doesn’t appear when Dean is curled up in the sitting room watching TV, and Dean still hasn’t seen him by the time he’s getting ready to sleep.

The bed feels too big for just one person when Dean slides under the covers, but he tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the knowledge that he’s supposed to be mating Krushnic tomorrow, and has only had one five minute conversation with him today.

He’s exhausted after his day of sun and exercise, but the worries about tomorrow keep circling around and around in Dean’s head.

It’s only once he’s finally almost asleep that he feels the covers shift, and the other side of the bed dip. Krushnic doesn’t say anything, and takes only a few seconds to get comfortable before everything is still again.

Pure exhaustion claims Dean not long after.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damn, guys. I don't really know where to start.
> 
> I know I haven't updated in like two months, and I'm so sorry for that. It's been... a huge two months, really. I spent three weeks in the US visiting Makenna and had the time of my fucking life, and when I got back I had to focus on uni and was also experiencing some writer's block. And then, just over two weeks ago, I was admitted to hospital and had to have emergency surgery to remove a pocket of air/fluid that had gotten into my chest cavity and was causing me some serious pain. Since then, I've been recovering from having open abdominal surgery, which has definitely been slow going. I'm hoping to be back in the groove now and providing more regular updates for you all. Thank you so much for your patience <3
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, because I'm impatient and I need love, so be gentle.
> 
> Love you all. Enjoy.

This time, Krushnic is actually still in bed when Dean wakes up.

He blinks blearily against the glare of the morning light, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. The sound of typing stops, and when Dean blinks again, Krushnic comes into focus, his fingers paused on the keys of the laptop resting on his lap.

“Good morning, Dean,” he says after a few moments of silence. “Did you sleep well?”

Dean stifles a yawn. It’s frustrating that he hadn’t been able to sleep properly until Krushnic had gone to bed, but at least it had been a refreshing sleep once he’d finally achieved it. No dreams, nothing.

Of course, his circumstances hit him like a ton of bricks as soon as he remembers what day it is today, and he has to fight to keep his scent from betraying the realisation. Suddenly, he’s _very_ awake.

“Slept okay,” he mutters, rolling onto his back so he can stare up at the ceiling and not the man who’s going to become his mate today. “You were up late,” he says, trying to distract himself.

Krushnic hums, and Dean hears the quiet _snick_ of the laptop closing. “Yes, I was. I apologize if it kept you up. I had a lot of arrangements to make regarding today.” He pauses, then asks, “How are you feeling?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder as nonchalantly as he can. “Fine.”

From the disbelieving sound Krushnic makes in the back of his throat, he doesn’t believe Dean in the slightest, but he doesn’t push it further. Dean catches some rustling noises, then the sound of the laptop being carefully placed on the nightstand. The mattress shifts, and Dean turns his head to see Krushnic pushing back the covers and climbing out.

His still-dazed brain focuses for a second on the muscles of the alpha’s back, and the scarring that mars his skin even there, before he can stop himself. He quickly looks away as Krushnic glances over his shoulder. His lips twitch, and it’s highly likely that he caught Dean looking, but he doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he says, “I’m going to shower. I have a few more arrangements to make after breakfast, but then we will be departing for the ceremony venue.”

And with that, he disappears into the bathroom. Dean vaguely registers the sound of the shower turning on. 

Today. It’s  _today_.

 _I can’t get caught up in freaking out_ , he reminds himself. He’s got a reputation to uphold as a fucking badass who doesn’t give a shit, not some wussy omega.

Dean hauls himself up to a seated position with a groan and rolls out his neck, then stretches up towards the ceiling. Like hell he’s going to give Krushnic the satisfaction of seeing just how nervous he is about today. Instead, he takes a few minutes just to calm himself, to clear his mind.

He’s been looking out through the windows, mind carefully blank of anything mating-related, when he hears the bathroom door open. Without thinking, his gaze swings back to Krushnic—who doesn’t so much as glance in Dean’s direction. He simply crosses the room, towel wrapped precariously around his hips, and disappears into the walk-in wardrobe. The door is pulled shut behind him.

Dean glares at the closed door and flips it the bird—a satisfying, if juvenile, act of defiance—then climbs out of bed and makes his way over to the bathroom.

The steam from Krushnic’s shower still lingers, the alpha’s scent almost overwhelming in the enclosed room. It smells like his shampoo, his body wash, but it’s not hard at all to identify the gunpowder and whiskey scent that hangs like a physical presence in the room.

Dean takes a deep inhale before he can stop himself.

The alpha’s scent washes over him, soothes his anxious omega and calms his racing mind—until he realizes what he’s doing, and huffs out a breath. “Stop it,” he growls to himself, pulling his attention away from Krushnic’s scent. Instead, he tries to focus on his own shower, grumbling under his breath as he strips off his pajamas and turns on the water.

It’s still warm from Krushnic’s shower, and Dean lets the water and the ambient noise soothe him, trying to let his fears and thoughts fade away as best he can. It works, until he gets back out and gets another noseful of the alpha’s lingering scent. His insides twist back up into knots, and he scrubs his hands over his face.

What a fan _friggin_ fastic way to start this day.

When he pokes his head out of the bathroom door, Krushnic is nowhere to be seen, so Dean risks crossing the bedroom naked and makes his way over to his bag. It still needs to be unpacked—though that seems like a job for tomorrow, once they’re _properly_ mated. Instead, he rifles through for jeans and a t-shirt and pulls them on.

He finds Krushnic downstairs, reading the newspaper at the table while Pamela puts the finishing touches on two plates of waffles. The alpha glances up as Dean steps into the room, and gives him a small, quick smile before returning his attention to the paper.

Dean takes his seat opposite Krushnic, tapping his fingers idly on the edge of the table until Pamela brings over their plates. She sets them down carefully, then steps back.

“Thank you, Pamela, that will be all,” Krushnic says, finally setting aside his paper.

Pamela—a beta, if Dean’s nose is correct—nods, and collects her things before making her unhurried way out of the dining area.

And then it’s just the two of them.

Krushnic reaches for his knife and fork and cuts deliberately into one waffle. The bite is halfway to his mouth when he lifts his eyes to Dean, who is still watching him. He pauses.

“You should eat, Dean,” he says, lowering the forkful of waffle. “It’s going to be a long day.”

Dean mentally shakes himself. “Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, dropping his gaze and reaching for his own fork. _Get your shit together_. “Got… distracted.”

Krushnic hums, his gaze fixed on Dean for a few more moments, but eventually returns to his waffles. He doesn’t say anything more, and it’s definitely up there on Dean’s list of awkward silences.

It’s only once Dean is halfway through devouring his plate of waffles that Dean realizes Krushnic is eating slower, and his eyes are fixed absently on something just over Dean’s right shoulder.

“Krushnic?” he asks, and the alpha’s eyes snap back to Dean’s. His brow creases in a frown.

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean still isn’t used to the intensity of those blue eyes, but he swallows and doesn’t look away. He _won’t_ act submissively.

“What’s the plan for today? Like… where are we going? What should I expect?”

He‘s not entirely sure that he wants to know, but at least this way he can be prepared. It’ll be worse if it’s sprung on him in the moment—he’d much rather know ahead.

Krushnic reaches for his mug of coffee and takes a sip, then wraps both hands around it as he regards Dean. “The plan,” he says, “is for us to make our way to The Grand Hotel, in the centre of town. The ceremony will be held in the ballroom, set to begin at four in the afternoon. There will be a reception with both packs, and we have the penthouse suite reserved for… afterwards.” He takes another sip and leans back in his chair. “We will check out tomorrow morning, and come back here. That is as much of the ‘plan’ as you need to know.”

The _Grand Hotel_? Jesus fucking Christ—when Krushnic had agreed for the ceremony to be small, Dean had most definitely not been expecting it to be located in the ballroom of one of the most goddamn expensive hotels in the city. There’s going to be so much pressure for him to act _properly_ at a venue like that, and there’s no way he won’t fuck something up.

“Great,” he says, his voice tight. “Fancy hotel, fancy ballroom. Just great.”

Krushnic quirks one eyebrow. “Yes, it is _fancy_ , but it’s also an accurate display of power. It would not do for John Winchester to forget just who he is dealing with in making such an agreement with the Krushnic pack.” He sets his mug down, and Dean catches the faintest hint of amusement in the alpha’s scent, quick enough that he’s not sure it was ever really there.

“Besides,” Krushnic says with a quiet chuckle, “the cousin I put in charge of the primary planning is sometimes known to be a bit… flamboyant. I expected nothing less from him.”

Dean twitches the corner of his mouth up in a tight smile, but his mind is elsewhere, focused on the day that Krushnic has outlined and wondering exactly what is going to be expected of him.

It’s safe to say that he feels kinda sick right now. Before he can even attempt to cover that up with empty bravado, though—

“Anyway.” Krushnic pushes his chair back from the table and stands, picking up his mug and plate. “I have to make a few calls to finalize certain details, but once I’m finished, we can leave.”

And with that, he walks his dishes over to the sink, and then leaves the kitchen.

Dean watches him go in silence.

He hates that the fucker is so hard to read. If only Dean could master that skill—although he gets the feeling that it’s taken a lot of practice and a lot of hardship to get to the stage Krushnic is at. But _still_. Surely it would make today so much easier.

With Krushnic gone, there’s not much left for Dean in the kitchen. He tidies up after himself, then wanders through to the foyer. His boots are still sitting by the door where he left them when he first arrived, and he pulls them on. Maybe the fresh air will help to clear his head a little, and give him a second or two to think about something that’s _not_ the upcoming mating that he’s being faced with.

It’s not so easy to think about things other than Krushnic when the alpha’s scent permeates every square inch of the house.

Dean sits down on the top step and looks out over the drive, his elbows resting on his knees, letting the fresh air clear out his nose and his head somewhat. It works well enough, until he spots the car making its way up the driveway.

This car is different to the one which had picked Dean up—it’s modern and painted a sleek silver, with the windows tinted but not blacked out. At least Krushnic has reasonable taste in modern cars, even if they can’t ever hold a candle to the classics. It rolls to a stop in front of the steps, and a few moments later, Benny emerges from the driver’s side.

He gives Dean a nod, but doesn’t otherwise speak—Dean’s giving off enough mild ‘fuck off’ vibes right now that it makes sense. Instead, the alpha leans against the passenger door, and Dean sits on the steps, and they wait for Krushnic.

The arrival of Dean’s mate-to-be is announced by the sound of the front door handle turning, and Krushnic’s footsteps on the ground behind Dean. He watches as Krushnic walks past him and descends the stairs, then turns to look at him.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks, and Dean meets his gaze steadily.

 _As ready as I’ll ever be_. Dean doesn’t respond, just stands and makes his way down the few steps to join Krushnic and Benny. Both alphas are watching him, and he rolls his eyes, looking out past them at the car.

The car that doesn’t have its windows blacked out.

He turns back with a frown, the question on the tip of his tongue. Before he can get it out, though, Benny moves his hand, and Dean’s gaze drops to it immediately.

The black blindfold hanging from his fingers looks innocuous enough, but to Dean, it’s anything but.

Fear washes through his scent, and there’s nothing he can do to control it. It takes all his focus just to keep his breathing even and his legs from collapsing. _Fuck. Fucking hell, please, no, I can’t do this today, not on top of everything else_ —

“Dean? Dean.”

Krushnic’s face swims into focus when Dean turns his head. “Are you okay?”

He has to be okay. They’re literally on their way to their mating ceremony, he can’t fuck things up _now_. There’s no way his dad would ever forgive him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out.

Krushnic doesn’t look convinced, his brows furrowing, but he continues anyway. “There are legalities preventing us taking the car with the blacked-out windows to the hotel, and I still can’t have you knowing the location of my house until after the mating, so I will have to blindfold you for this trip.” He squints at Dean, his head tilted and eyes piercing through to his very soul. “Do you consent to being blindfolded?”

 _No_.

“Yes,” Dean chokes out.

Krushnic stares at him for a long moment, then wordlessly takes the blindfold from Benny. Dean’s heart rate kicks up several notches at the sight of the black cloth twining through Krushnic’s fingers. The alpha slowly lifts it towards Dean’s eyes—he feels like he’s going to vomit, seeing blackness obscure more and more of his vision.

His hand darts out to grab Krushnic’s wrist, and the alpha blinks.

Dean may have really fucked up here, but he can’t do it. He can’t.

“Please, Krushnic,” he gasps, his breaths coming rapidly, “can you… I need… please don’t let go of me, I… I can’t…”

Krushnic stands very still. His eyes flick down to where Dean’s fingers are gripping his wrist, and then back up to meet Dean’s gaze.

“I need you to tell me exactly what you need from me, Dean,” he says after a few moments, his voice level and calm. There’s a thread of alpha influence in his words, and Dean bites his lip.

It takes him a second or two to figure out exactly what he _does_  want, and then longer to be able to actually say it.

“I need… I need you to keep touching me,” he says, his voice trembling. Fuck, this wasn’t the side he wanted to show today, not even close, but there’s no avoiding it right now. “I can’t be alone. Not if you’re putting this thing on me.” If he’s left alone in the dark, with no anchor, nothing…

He tightens his grip on the alpha’s wrist without thinking, and Krushnic’s scent shifts minutely. His gaze has never once wavered from Dean’s face.

“I can do that,” he says slowly, “but in return, I would like for you to do something for me. Does that seem reasonable?”

Dean nods—anything to loosen the metal bands that are tightening around his chest until he can’t fucking breathe.

Krushnic lowers the blindfold, and uses his free hand to gently pull Dean’s fingers away from his wrist. His grip is warm and firm, and Dean focuses on that—until the alpha speaks again.

“Call me Castiel.”

_That’s all?_

Dean blinks, uncomprehending. Krushnic could have requested so many things from him, but… this? He squints at the alpha, but Krushnic’s expression doesn’t change—nor does his scent. Maybe there’s no deception to this.

 _Castiel_. He can do that.

“Okay,” he says. The corners of Krushnic’s— _Castiel’s_ —mouth quirk up ever so slightly.

“Thank you.”

Castiel uses his grip on Dean’s hand to guide it toward his chest, and Dean obligingly curls his fingers into the front of his shirt. The grounding touch helps level him when Castiel lifts the blindfold again, but he still can’t stop the way his hands tremble and his throat closes up when the black cloth touches his face and covers his eyes.

“You’re okay,” Castiel whispers, closer then Dean remembers him being. “I’m here.”

He fastens the knot quickly and efficiently, and Dean lets out a shaky exhale as his hands slide down Dean’s neck to his shoulders.

“We’re going to get in the car now.” One hand slides down to Dean’s hip, while the other takes his free hand. He doesn’t try to uncurl Dean’s grip on his shirt, which is smart—he’s holding on so tightly that he’s not really sure it would be possible right now.

Getting into the car is a little tricky, since Dean is relying entirely on Castiel’s guidance _and_ trying to limit his panicking as much as he can, but eventually Dean finds himself in the backseat. Castiel is still close, his hands pressed against Dean. The door closes behind them, and then it’s just silence.

“Let me get your seatbelt,” Castiel says—then, quieter; “would you like me to keep touching you?”

“Please,” Dean whispers, not letting himself think too much about the question. Fuck, he hates himself for showing this side of himself, this side that he would keep hidden forever if he could, but it’s not worth it to pretend he’s okay. He’d rather just force himself to be vulnerable in this moment. And it _is_ helping, even though he’d rather not admit it. Castiel’s touch, his scent? It’s _good_.

Dean grits his teeth and tries to empty his mind as the alpha fastens both of their seatbelts, then settles with his arm around Dean’s shoulders. His thumb brushes back and forth across the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt, over his skin, and fuck, it’s hard to fight how good that feels.

It’s a better thing to focus on than the fact that he can’t fucking see and he’s stuck inside a car with no way out right now, so he tries to relax into it, and loosens his death grip on Castiel’s shirt a little. “How long will it take to get there?”

The thumb pauses in its movements. “Just under an hour,” Castiel says, “but I will be able to remove the blindfold before that, if it’s causing you distress.”

“I’d appreciate that.” The sooner, the better.

In the meantime, though, Dean leans back in his seat and tries to let his mind wander.

He definitely doesn’t think about the alpha next to him, thumb still stroking back and forth over his shoulder.

~~~

By the time they make it to the hotel, Dean is feeling at least a little calmer than he had been upon leaving the house. Castiel pulled the blindfold off ten minutes before they reached the hotel, and had respectfully moved away once Dean’s scent had started to put out ‘don’t touch me’ vibes. He may have needed it before, but now that the primal, fearful part of his brain has calmed down, the alpha’s touch is the last thing he wants.

Even more so when they turn up to the hotel, where a whole heap of security is waiting, just for them. He recognizes some of them as members of the Winchester pack, but there are more that he doesn’t know, who must be Krushnics.

Benny opens Castiel’s door for him, but before he can come around and open Dean’s, Dean climbs out on his own. He’s not a pup, he doesn’t need anyone to open his car door, for fuck’s sake.

Castiel gives him a _look_ as he buttons the jacket of his suit, but Dean just throws him a smirk and rounds the car to stand by the alpha’s side. “We’re back to being contrary, are we?” Castiel asks under his breath, and again, Dean catches the faintest glimmer of terse amusement in his scent.

“You know it,” he mutters back, falling into step as Castiel makes his way up towards the front entrance, the two of them flanked by their guards.

Their arms brush, but otherwise they don’t touch, and Castiel’s attention is soon diverted, anyway. Another alpha falls into step on his other side, reporting in to Castiel. “Security has been established and everyone who will be present has been vetted. Gabriel wants to speak with you, no other guests have arrived yet. No word on Winchester yet, but we’re expecting him soon.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you, Inias. You’re dismissed.”

The alpha peels away again; Dean’s gaze follows him, until he disappears out of sight. He’s used to observing, since he’s been learning this kind of strategy from a young age. It’s even easier as an omega.

They continue down the hallway, flanked by security guards but with Castiel leading the way, always half a step ahead of Dean. Soon enough, the alpha stops beside a door, and two of the guards take up position outside—one Krushnic and one Winchester.

“This is where I’ll be leaving you, Dean,” Castiel says, and a member of their little entourage steps forward. An omega, from his scent, not much older than Dean. “This is Samandriel. He’ll be helping you prepare for the ceremony.”

The omega offers Dean a smile. Dean eyes him for a second, then looks back at Castiel. “So, what, I’m not gonna see you until later? Can’t see me before the ceremonyand all that archaic crap?”

The corners of Castiel’s lips turn up in a quick, amused smile. “Something like that, yes, although I can’t help but think that I already broke that tradition when we woke up in the same bed this morning.”

He might have a point there. “Yeah, whatever,” Dean mutters, and the smile quickly disappears from the alpha’s face. “You gonna leave me to be made over or what?”

Castiel checks his watch, then straightens his cuffs. “Of course. I’ll see you at the ceremony, Dean.” And with that, he turns and walks away along the corridor, flanked by his security team, until he rounds a corner and disappears from sight.

Dean releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and rubs his hand over his face. Fucking hell, he just doesn’t know how to feel or act today.

“You doing okay?” the omega—Samandriel, and Jesus, who names their kid that?—asks him. He’s holding open the door to what must be Dean’s dressing room, but watching Dean with a concerned expression.

Dean squares his shoulders. “Fuckin’ peachy,” he bites out. He glances in the direction Castiel disappeared in one last time, then huffs out a breath and steps past Samandriel into his dressing room.

~~~

With the ceremony being such a big deal, Dean had guessed that he’d have to wear some kind of fancy monkey suit, but he hadn’t realized just how uncomfortable the damn thing would be. He growls under his breath and tugs at the stiff collar of his shirt, trying to get the damn thing away from his throat so he can actually  _breathe_. The bow tie just makes the whole situation even worse.

“Fuck this,” Dean mutters to himself as he checks his hair in the mirror. Still as hairsprayed as it had been when Samandriel had finished styling it five minutes ago. He resists the compulsion to touch it, because then he’ll have to endure more fussing, and he’s had enough of that to last a fucking lifetime.

A quiet creak and the sound of footsteps tells him that he’s no longer alone, and he turns, expecting to see Samandriel again. The other omega has barely left his side this whole time.

But instead of seeing Samandriel in the doorway, it’s Sam.

His little brother has an unreadable expression on his face, but Dean can pick out the undertones of distress in his scent, even from halfway across the room. “Hey kiddo,” he says, faking a grin and leaning back against the vanity. “Come to see your big brother one more time before I become a mated man, huh?”

Sam’s face crumples. “Dean…” he says quietly, and fuck, Dean hasn’t heard his voice wobble like that since he was a pup.

“Hey, come on now.” He straightens up and crosses the room, pulling Sam into a quick hug. “It’s fine, okay? _I’m_ fine. I knew this was gonna happen someday, right? I just… wasn’t expecting it to be so soon.”

The hug that he gets in return is tight and squeezing, and Dean has to bat at his brother’s shoulders to get him to loosen his hold. “Dude, if you crease my shirt I’m gonna be in so much trouble. Gentle, Samsquatch.”

At least that makes Sam laugh, though it’s still a little more watery than Dean may have liked. He loosens his grip, then lets go completely after a few seconds. “Since when have you ever been worried about your wardrobe?” he teases, and Dean punches him gently in the arm.

“Fuck off. I’ve gotta look good today, don’t I? Gotta make sure Castiel knows he’s getting a damn quality omega.” Not that he’s a quality omega in any sense of the word, except maybe his facial features, and those are kind of ruined when they’re paired with a mouth that would put a sailor to shame.

Sam seems to agree, because he snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, right, Dean. Good luck with that.” He moves past Dean and takes a seat at the vanity, pushing his floppy hair out of his eyes before he spins back, one eyebrow raised. “Wait. You’re calling him ‘Castiel’ now?”

 _Shit_. Dean shrugs one shoulder and leans to the side of Sam to check his bow tie in the mirror. He doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “Yeah. He asked me to. It’s not a big deal.”

Sam is silent for a long moment, and Dean can feel the weight of his gaze. “Uh huh,” he says slowly. “Except that when you were getting ready to leave, it was all ‘Krushnic’s a dick’ and ‘fuck that Krushnic guy.’ And now he’s ‘Castiel,’ huh?”

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean snaps, and there’s an underlying growl in his tone now. He doesn’t want to talk about this any more. “It doesn’t matter. Just leave it alone.”

Watching Sam wilt beneath his gaze is almost enough to make Dean feel bad, but he’s barely holding himself together as it is. He doesn’t need Sam poking at his façade—the kid knows all the places that will make him crack. Instead, he asks, softer, “How’s it been going at home?”

Sam shrugs, his gaze downcast now, and mumbles something about it being ‘alright, but not as good without you there.’ Dean does his best to redirect the conversation, to distract both of them from the circumstances on what’s about to happen. God knows he needs a bit of a laugh with his little brother right now.

They’re halfway through reminiscing about the time Sam almost set his hair on fire with one of their grandfather’s lighters when there’s a sharp rap on the door, and they both go silent. Samandriel steps in, now fully suited. “Dean, I’m here to inform you that the ceremony will be beginning shortly, and to help you with the last few steps of preparation. Sam, unfortunately you’re going to have to leave and join the rest of the guests now.”

The mood in the room changes with dizzying speed. Sam’s face falls, and he looks at Dean as he stands up from the vanity. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks quietly.

Dean clenches his jaw, fakes a smile that has too many teeth, and nods. “Yeah, of course. I’m always okay. You don’t need to worry about me—you just focus on learning what you can so you can be a less shitty Alpha than dad, okay?”

Sam’s mouth quirks up into a quick, sad smile at that, and he nods. “Good luck out there,” he says. They share one last quick hug, and then he’s leaving the room. Samandriel shuts the door behind him, and Dean lets out a long breath.

From there, it’s not much more preparation. Samandriel adjusts his waistcoat and his bow tie, helps him into the jacket of his tux, and fixes a few seemingly errant hairs, and then it’s time.

When he steps outside the dressing room, one of the guards lifts a hand to his earpiece. “Winchester is on his way,” he says, and the two of them fall into a flanking position on either side of Dean and Samandriel as they make their way along the corridor.

Dean’s stomach is churning at the prospect of what is about to come, but he holds his head high. He’s Dean fucking Winchester, after all, and he’s got a damn reputation to uphold. He can freak out internally all he wants, just as long as no one can tell what’s going on behind the couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude.

They stop in front of two huge doors, and Samandriel turns to face Dean. “Good luck,” he says, with a smile that seems genuine.

“Thanks,” Dean mutters, feeling just a little bit bad for being a jerk to the guy. Samandriel turns and disappears around the corner of the hallway, leaving Dean with just the two security guards. He could run right now, right? He’s surely faster than the two burly alphas.

There’s no way he’d follow through with it, though. He wouldn’t shame his pack like that, no matter how much he hates his dad for putting him in this position. Besides, where would he go? With no pack to speak of, he’d be an outsider, and a life with Castiel is better than that. Hell, after the way the alpha had dealt with the blindfold and his claustrophobia…

He doesn’t dare to hope that something could actually come out of this mating.

“Winchester is in position,” the guard says. They step back, on either side of the door, so that it’s just Dean standing there, and then the doors slowly swing open to reveal the ballroom.

It’s terrifying, to say the least. The conversation that had been rippling throughout the guests dies down to a hush, only a handful of whispers barely audible beneath the music that announces Dean’s arrival. Everyone is staring at him, and _son of a bitch_ , he hates this, but he hasn’t got a choice.

Dean lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, and steps into the sun-soaked ballroom. It’s all he can do to focus on placing one foot in front of the other and keeping his scent as neutral as he can as he makes his way along the rich carpet, between the decorated pews. The eyes of the guests follow him, and the whispers increase as he passes. Usually the tones of jealousy and awe and want in the scents of the alphas he passes would make him smirk, but it’s hard to be smug about eliciting that reaction in the situation he’s in right now.

As he reaches the end of the carpeted aisle, he finally looks up and meets Castiel’s gaze.

If Castiel had looked good in his everyday suits, that’s nothing on how he looks right now. The tuxedo hugs his broad shoulders, his biceps, his strong thighs. The neatness of his hair looks somewhat out of place, but still has a devastating effect when paired with the damn _crime_ that is that tuxedo. Dean’s legs wobble slightly, and he fights to keep his scent even, devoid of any kind of emotion.

The alpha’s face, as he watches Dean walk down the aisle, is mostly impassive, and might look expressionless to anyone else who’s watching. There’s a look in his eyes, though, some emotion that Dean can’t quite decipher yet but _wants_ to. He wants to know what his future mate is thinking, in this moment. Is he regretting his decision? Or does he still want Dean, reputation and attitude and all?

Dean climbs the few steps up to the raised stage and takes his place opposite Castiel. He swallows, nervous, but doesn’t look away from the alpha. Castiel quirks the corners of his lips up in response; a tiny, fleeting smile undoubtedly intended to reassure. It does make him feel a little better, surprisingly.

The officiant clears his throat, and the music fades out. The whispers stop. The whole room resonates with the newfound silence. All eyes are on the Krushnic Alpha and his mate-to-be.

When the officiant starts to speak, his voice ringing out into the open ballroom, Dean lets out a long breath. Castiel’s gaze drops to his lips for a moment, then back up to his eyes. Dean flashes him a quick, tiny smirk, and Castiel’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before he turns his attention to the officiant to respond to one of the ceremony’s questions.

Dean doesn’t pay much attention to this part—it’s mostly directed at Castiel, and doesn’t call on Dean much at all. He even starts to drift in his thoughts, his brain getting caught on how the sunlight brightens Castiel’s blue eyes, or the chapped bow of his lips, or the stray hairs that are coming loose from the perfect hairstyle. There’s no denying that his future mate looks damn good, dressed to the nines and illuminated in the natural, late afternoon sunlight that streams through the high-set ballroom windows.

The officiant’s voice cuts through Dean’s thoughts.

“Dean Winchester. Please kneel before your alpha.”

And just like that, all of Dean’s distracted thoughts come crashing back down to earth.

He swallows nervously, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. He has to kneel—has to kneel in front of _everyone_. To _Castiel_. He’s never knelt for anyone in his life, and if he had a choice, he wouldn’t begin here.

That’s the thing, though. He doesn’t have a choice. To refuse in the middle of a mating ceremony would be the ultimate offense. The audience holds its breath, tension thick in the air. The members of the Winchester pack all know full well how unruly Dean is, and the members of the Krushnic pack have probably heard of his reputation by now.

Dean grits his teeth. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, and clasps his hands behind his back.

Castiel lets out a breath, and the rest of the room does the same.

 _Stupid fucking archaic rules_.

The officiant begins talking again, and Dean recites his vows word for word, his gaze never once wavering from Castiel’s. He may have knelt, but he won’t drop his gaze. Omega or not, he won’t be demure. He will hold his head high and defiant throughout this entire process.

His vows come to an end, and Castiel smiles. It’s small, but it’s real, and this time it doesn’t disappear after half a second. He reaches out and brushes his fingers lightly through Dean’s hair.

It’s a fleeting touch, there and gone again before Dean can really register it, but the quick brush of fingers… he can’t help the small, shuddering breath that escapes his lips. He knows his irises must be threading with gold right now and he clenches his jaw. Fucking omega instincts.

Castiel’s hand falls back to his side, and Dean shifts on his knees, switching the grasp of his hands and clenching his fists. Damn it, why can’t this just be over already?

The officiant clears his throat, breaking the silence that has descended upon the ballroom, and Dean resists the urge to move as the officiant continues with the vows. Castiel doesn’t break eye contact until the last of his vows are done, his deep voice resonating through the air and down Dean’s spine. Once the last word has been uttered, the alpha offers Dean his hand.

Dean eyes it for a second, debating whether or not he should take it. There’s no use in being petty and rejecting the offer, though, so Dean takes it as gracefully as he can and rises to his feet. Now that they’re face to face, Castiel’s eyes widen just slightly, and Dean knows that he’s seen the filaments of gold in his irises. The alpha’s thread with the barest hint of red in response, and the grip on Dean’s hand tightens imperceptibly.

He’s so distracted by the alpha’s reaction that Dean misses the officiant’s words, so Castiel takes him by surprise when he curls his free hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him close for a kiss.

The alpha’s lips are warm and chapped, and the hand on the back of his neck is a reassuring weight, but it’s over before Dean can even think about kissing back. The sudden absence leaves him reeling just as much as the kiss had, and he blinks, trying to mentally shake himself. Castiel has put him on the back foot, that’s for sure, and the crinkles around the alpha’s eyes are proof that he knows it.

When the audience bursts into applause, Castiel takes the opportunity to lean in close, his lips brushing the shell of Dean’s ear and sending a shiver down his spine. “You did well,” he whispers.

And just like that, the sheer enormity of the ceremony, the kiss, _everything_ , hits Dean.

In the eyes of the law, he is now the mate of Castiel Krushnic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're earning that rating in this chapter, my friends. And a bonus Cas POV! It must be Christmas. Thank you so much to [Adaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaille/pseuds/adaille) for beta-reading, you're a superstar.
> 
> Enjoy <3

Being mated should feel different. From what Michael told him, shortly after his own ceremony, the day you take a mate is easily one of the best days of your life. Of course, he’d mated an omega who, while she had come from an influential pack, was someone Michael had loved.

Dean Winchester, however?

Castiel still isn’t sure. He sees potential there, of course, or he would never have agreed to John’s proposition, but the omega is complex. Beautiful and smart, but sharp-tongued and defiant, with the right combination of each to make Castiel very, very curious.

He’d known of Dean’s reputation even before John had made the offer, of course. As the Alpha of one of the strongest packs on the east coast, it’s his business to be informed about his rivals, and it was no secret that John Winchester’s eldest son would never be one to bend beneath the hand of any alpha.

That information had only made Castiel all the more intrigued.

Beside him, Dean’s gold-flecked irises glow in the late afternoon light that fills the ballroom, his freckles a resplendent constellation across his cheeks. He’s completely and utterly captivating to Castiel, as he surely is for every alpha in the room. Castiel still feels giddy from the sight of Dean kneeling before him, gazing up through long lashes with a steely look that said _you are not my master_.

He knows that. He’d known from the beginning that being with Dean, finding a compromise, would take time. This? Dean kneeling during the ceremony? This is a better first step than Castiel could have hoped for. And god, had he looked beautiful doing it.

Castiel drops his hand from Dean’s neck, but keeps his fingers twined with Dean’s with the other. He suspects, after what had happened with the blindfold, that he might need the point of contact. Whether he likes it or not, Dean is a tactile person, and that is definitely something that Castiel can use if he needs to.

His hunch proves correct. Dean’s scent shifts restlessly, and he slants a glance down at their joined hands, but doesn’t otherwise say anything. When the guests begin to stand and mingle, some making their way towards the raised stage, he shifts his grip and raises his head. Castiel can taste the threads of his anxiety on the air.

“I can do most of the talking,” he says quietly, beginning to lead Dean towards the front of the stage, to the stairs. The guests, most of them being influential and more than a little traditional, won’t be expecting Dean to say much anyway, but he doesn’t mention that. Dean is doing well, and Castiel needs this public event to go as well as possible. Once they’re back in the privacy of their home, it’s less important, but everything that Dean does is now a reflection on Castiel.

He doesn’t doubt that some of the people here are waiting for one of them—Dean, most likely—to make a mistake.

“Fine by me,” Dean mutters, and there’s tension in his shoulders, in the way he holds himself. “How much of this stupid show’ve we got left?”

Castiel gives his hand a small squeeze. “Just the reception meal, and then we’ll be able to take our leave.”

The anxiety in Dean’s scent sharpens, but he doesn’t say anything, just fakes a tight smile as the first of the guests reaches them. As Samandriel and his team pull back the heavy dividing curtain to reveal the dining setup and quietly repurpose the space, Castiel spends his time greeting and talking with the guests, Dean by his side. Many of them, after all, are only interested in speaking with Castiel—when Dean _is_ spoken to, it’s usually just to tell him how lucky he is to be mated to such a powerful alpha.

Dean’s flatly restrained scent ripples with anger, and it’s not hard to tell that he’s barely holding his tongue behind the painfully forced smile. Even so, Castiel appreciates his restraint, and most of the guests barely notice, anyway. Those who do sweep him with their gaze from head to toe, and Castiel is sure that it’s not Dean’s clear tension that they’re focused on.

The only people Dean truly smiles for are Sam and a few other who smell of _rival pack_ who must be friends of Dean’s. They give Castiel a cursory, narrowed glance, but Dean is the one that they focus on. It’s nice to see him smile, and for the some of the tension to lift from him for just a minute or two. He’s been _good_ today, despite how stressful this whole experience must be for him, and Castiel just wants him to be relaxed and happy.

Of course, as soon as they’re called over to where dinner is being served in the reception area, Dean closes right back up again. He sits down stiffly when Castiel pulls his chair out for him, and were they alone right now, he’d almost certainly refuse or at least have something scathing to say. As it is, though, he just sits, fiddling compulsively with his cufflinks beneath the table where no one else can see.

Thankfully, the reception is reasonably short. There are a few courses to get through, as well as more pleasantries and small talk. It’s nothing new to him, but it’s admittedly a little difficult to focus on talking with the guests and maintaining good relationships when he knows that Dean is miserable in this situation.

Beside him, the omega eats mostly in silence, focusing his attention on the food more than the guests. Castiel doesn’t miss the sneaky glances his new mate slants at his silverware every time they’re served a new course, trying to discern which to use, and he also doesn’t miss the way that, despite the situation, Dean digs into particular meals with gusto and pleasure. He makes mental notes of what Dean prefers—perhaps he can ask Pamela to recreate the dishes—and smiles to himself at the blissful expression on Dean’s face after he’s finished the assortment of pies and pastries that were served as dessert.

It’s a good look on him, and Castiel can’t help but hope he’ll be able to recreate it, or something similar, later tonight. He clears his throat, shifts in his seat, and tries to return his attention to the bigshot lawyer he’s currently chatting with.

After that, it’s not long before the reception begins to wrap up. Benny appears behind them and ducks his head quickly to tell Castiel that it’s almost time for them to take their leave, then disappears back to his post. Castiel takes a deep breath—he’s not sure if the ceremony and reception have been more or less difficult to navigate than what is still to come with Dean.

Dean gives a terse nod when Castiel tells him it’s time for them to leave. The contented expression has disappeared from his face, but there’s not much Castiel can do about that right now, not when he has to stand and give a short toast, thanking each of the guests for attending.

It’s short and sweet and to the point, and Castiel ignores the daggers that Sam Winchester shoots his way just this once. Usually he wouldn’t tolerate that kind of attitude, but the boy is young and emotional, and besides. He’s feeling charitable tonight.

They take their leave with light applause from the guests, Dean’s hand on Castiel’s arm and his back stiff. As soon as the reception area is out of sight, Dean drops his hand as though he’s been burned, and his scent morphs fully into the burnt-vanilla scent that it’s been lingering on the edge of all night. Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“Is everything okay?” he asks as they make their way towards the waiting elevator, and Dean scoffs quietly.

“Yeah, just fuckin’ peachy,” he snarks, pulling his bowtie away from his throat. “Can’t say I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Inwardly, Castiel sighs. He doesn’t want to do anything without Dean’s consent—despite all the illegal and immoral things he’s done, he would never stoop to such a low level—but the fact remains that they _do_ need to consummate tonight. He needs this mating to go smoothly.

“I know,” he says, as they walk past the waiting guards and step into the elevator. “We can take it as slowly as you need. I want to make tonight good for you.”

Dean’s gaze rakes the length of his body, and then the omega snorts quietly and shakes his head to himself, as though he doesn’t believe what Castiel is saying. Which part does he doubt? That they’ll take it slow, or that he can make it good for Dean? He bristles slightly at the insinuation that he doesn’t know how to look after his omega, and his scent shifts just a little, the faintest hint of gunpowder settling in the air. He’ll show Dean exactly how good he can make tonight.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the top floor to the hotel, the elevator announcing their arrival with a muted _ding_. The bitter undertone to Dean’s scent intensifies, but he doesn’t say anything, just follows Castiel out once the doors have slid open. On this level, there are only three doors, one flanked by two Krushnic security guards who nod to Castiel in unison.

He slips the keycard out from the pocket inside his suit jacket and holds it up to the sensor beside the door. With a soft _click_ , it unlocks.

As he steps through the doorway to the penthouse suite, Castiel lets some of the tension roll off his shoulders. Finally, it’s just him and Dean again—no more posturing, or orders to give, or influential people to converse with. It’s just him and his mate, and while he still has to be switched on around Dean, it’s much less exhausting.

In fact, he’s kind of curious to see what Dean is going to throw his way tonight.

The door closes behind them both, and Castiel hears a small gasp from Dean as he realises just how lavish the suite is. It’s huge and expensively decorated—much more so than Castiel’s own house. It’s a little too lavish for his taste, but the Alpha of the Krushnic pack would settle for nothing less than the best hotel suite in the whole city. The cost hadn’t even left a dent in their coffers, after all, and it’s important that their rivals know that.

Still. It may be commonplace for Castiel, but for Dean? It’s evident that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, as he stares at the expensive furniture and the wall of clear glass that looks out onto the city below. He looks completely lost for words, his mouth hanging open. Castiel hides a smile—clearly his intelligence on the poor financial state of the Winchester pack is correct.

“Fucking hell, you really _are_ rich,” Dean whispers, barely loud enough to be heard.

This time, he can’t hold back an amused snort. “Yes,” he says simply, then moves past Dean, further into the main room of the suite. There’s a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on a tall table by the windows, and he couldn’t be happier about leaving Samandriel to organise everything when he reads the label. Extremely expensive, and just the kind of indulgence that Castiel needs right now.

He shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over one of the armchairs, then pours himself a finger of whiskey. “Can I get you a drink?” he calls back to Dean.

Dean’s footsteps are quiet on the carpeted floor, but Castiel is completely focused on the sound of the omega coming to him. He doesn’t want to spook Dean, and lets him make his way across the room at his own pace. The lights of the city skyline twinkle serenely out the expansive window, and Castiel sips his whiskey and admires the view as he waits.

Dean steps into his peripheral vision. Without speaking, Castiel hands him the second glass he’d poured, and allows himself a smile as some of the sweetness returns to Dean’s scent.

“Thanks,” Dean says quietly.

They stand like that for a little while—Castiel drinking to relax, and Dean… well, Dean’s scent continues to calm, though it’s never _quite_ level. There’s always a slightly bitter undertone to it, like burnt sugar, but at least he’s not completely freaking out—they do have all night, after all. There’s no point in rushing this.

Dean finishes his whiskey first, swallowing the last of it in one go. He sets his glass down on the table, and Castiel watches with slanted gaze as he divests himself of his suit jacket, then his waistcoat. When it comes to the bowtie, though, his fingers tug at the complicated knot to no avail. The bitter undertone creeps back into his scent, and he growls under his breath. “Fuckin’ stupid monkey suit, stupid goddamn bowtie…”

“Dean,” Castiel says. The omega goes still, and his eyes flick up to Castiel’s. There’s frustration in there, and he suspects that it’s not simply from his failure to unknot the bowtie. “Let me help?”

Will Dean accept the offer? Castiel waits as patiently as he can, even though he’s itching to help, to be close to Dean and to touch him. He’s _beautiful_ , even tightly coiled with frustration and anxiety, his green eyes sparking with the impulse to defy.

Castiel beats down his impatience and watches his new mate, waiting until Dean drops his hands and gives him a small nod that says _yes, I accept_.

It’s a small victory, but god, does it feel good. Castiel could purr from the satisfaction right now.

He sets aside his drink and steps in close to Dean, brushing his fingertips over the omega’s collar and grasping the ends of the bowtie. It only takes a few seconds to untie, and he slowly pulls it free.

It’s almost overwhelming, how much he wishes that the drag of silk on cotton was his hands on Dean’s skin.

Castiel lets the bowtie slip through his fingers and fall to the ground. When he glances up at Dean, he finds the omega’s eyes wide, his lips parted. His scent swirls with caramel, and it’s so tempting to close the distance between them and find out if Dean tastes as sweet as he smells.

“ _Ya khochu potselovat’ tebya_ ,” he murmurs, his fingertips caressing the collar of Dean’s shirt. They itch with the compulsion to touch, to claim, to settle on Dean’s bare skin and worship and _own_.

Dean shivers, and Castiel watches, intrigued, as tiny flecks of gold begin to appear in his irises. “What… what does that mean?” Dean whispers. His hands come up to press against Castiel’s chest, not pulling him closer—but also not pushing him away.

“I would like to kiss you.”

Dean’s gaze drops to Castiel’s lips, and in the low light, his green eyes look ethereal. He’s thinking, and Castiel can be patient, but when he looks up through his lashes and whispers, “okay,” a shiver runs the length of Castiel’s spine. Finally, he lets himself touch Dean, sliding a hand around to the back of his neck and leaning in close.

There’s an audible hitch in Dean’s breath as their lips brush, just enough to tease. Castiel’s inner alpha purrs with delight at the sound, at the way Dean melts beneath even the slightest touch. He pulls back, enough that they’re breathing the same air—will Dean chase him?

“I’m not gonna break, you know,” Dean says, his voice quiet and husky. His nose bumps against Castiel’s. “You don’t have to treat me like that. I’ve done this before.”

It’s stupid to think that Dean hasn’t kissed other people, or even gone _further_ with other people, but a growl bubbles up from Castiel’s chest unbidden. This is _his_ mate, and he’s not one to share. His alpha vibrates with the need to kiss, to fuck, to claim, until any other alpha Dean has ever touched is gone from his memory, and there’s only _Castiel_. His mate, his alpha.

Castiel forces down those thoughts. Tonight isn’t the night for jealousy and posturing. He needs to keep a clear head.

“Not quite the perfect omega, am I?” Dean jokes, and it’s partially goading, but… there’s something else beneath it. His smirk wavers, just slightly, and Castiel sees it.

 _Fear_.

He’s done such a good job of hiding it today, beneath layers of snark and cockiness and pretending that he just doesn’t care, that Castiel had almost forgotten that he might be _afraid_. Afraid of Castiel, afraid of taking a mate…

 _Afraid he might not be good enough_.

Castiel rubs his thumb over Dean’s neck, and slides his other hand around to the small of his back, pulling him close. Dean swallows, his fingers flexing against Castiel’s chest, lips parting in anticipation.

“I wouldn’t have chosen to mate you if you weren’t what I wanted, Dean,” he whispers, and then he leans in and kisses his mate, deeply and soundly.

Dean makes a soft, surprised sound against his lips—whether that’s because of the words or the kiss, Castiel isn’t sure, but he’s definitely not complaining when Dean curls his fingers into the front of his shirt and pulls him in closer until they’re flush against each other.

Kissing Dean, and having him kiss back, is completely intoxicating, and it’s clear that this isn’t Dean’s first rodeo when he drags his teeth over Castiel’s bottom lip, his tongue then teasing over the same path. He certainly has some tricks up his sleeve.

When they separate for air, Castiel feels as though he’s been turned on his head, and Dean is breathless but smirking. Flushed and thoroughly-kissed is a good look on him, the alpha decides in that moment. “You certainly do know some tricks already,” he says, turning his head to brush his lips along Dean’s jaw. “But I’m sure I can show you a thing or two tonight.”

Again, Dean goes still, just for a fraction of a second, but quickly covers it up with a grin. “Is that so? You talk a big talk, _Krushnic_ , but I’ve yet to see you walk the walk.”

And isn’t that a challenge if ever he’s heard one.

Castiel slides his hand up and threads his fingers into Dean’s hair, angling his head for another kiss. It’s deeper this time, slow and dirty, and Castiel holds Dean close with the hand against the small of his back as he pulls out every filthy trick with his tongue that he knows. At one point, he even manages to get a muffled moan out of Dean, and the sweet scent of vanilla and caramel permeates the air.

This time, when he pulls back, Dean is flushed and panting, lips spit-slick and eyes wide. His fingers are curled tightly into Castiel’s shirt, as though he doesn’t quite trust his legs to hold him up any more.

“Can’t walk the walk, hmm?” Castiel muses, shifting his hand against the small of Dean’s back. He’s hard in his slacks—how could he _not_ be, after that—but he gives Dean a little room to move away out of courtesy.

He doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t say anything for a few moments; just opens and closes his mouth, then clears his throat.

“You know, Samandriel put a lot of work into styling that hair,” he says, leaning his head into Castiel’s hand, where his fingers have mussed up the perfectly groomed strands.

Castiel barely suppresses a snort. “I’m sure he did, but I’m also pretty sure he knew it wasn’t going to stay that way.” Come to think of it, he’s also getting sick of his own hairstyling. It feels plastic and immovable atop his head, and while he’s used to being well-groomed, he’s not accustomed to having his hair gelled within an inch of its life.

Dean seems to agree. “Yeah, I think you might’ve done me a favour, anyway. I look a bit too choir-boy for what’s going down tonight.” He levels a sly, teasing look at Castiel through his lashes—then, to Castiel’s displeasure, steps backwards and breaks the hold. “Honestly, I need a shower. I still feel…” He wrinkles his nose. “Too dressed up and fake. I wanna forget about all the ceremony bullshit.”

His scent wavers, then steadies again, just as sweet and rich as it was before. Castiel wants to close the distance, to put his hands back on Dean—but if Dean wants space to take a shower, then that’s what Castiel will give him.

He watches as Dean walks backwards towards the open doors that lead to the bedroom, a smirk curling his lips and those deft fingers slowly undoing his shirt, one button at a time.

He can’t follow. Tonight is about Dean’s comfort, not Castiel’s want.

He tightens his fists until his nails bite into his palms, and Dean grins at him. “Something the matter, _alpha_ ?” Fuck. Dean has such an uncanny way of pushing his buttons and spinning him until he doesn’t know which way is up, more so than anyone he’s ever met and _especially_ in this environment.

The shirt falls to the floor in the doorway to the bedroom, and Dean watches him with a gold-flecked gaze. “Well? I said I was going to take a shower.” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow. “I never said you couldn’t join me.” 

And then he disappears into the bedroom.

 _This omega_. Castiel shakes his head.

He gives Dean a minute of a head start—finishes his drink, caps the bottle of whiskey and sets it neatly aside—then follows in the direction Dean had disappeared in.

The bedroom is luxurious, the huge bed bathed in the golden glow of designer light fittings, with another window overlooking the sparkling expanse of the city below. It’s not the bedroom itself that Castiel is interested in, though—it’s the sound of running water and the slice of light that spills across the carpeted floor, emanating from the half-open door of the ensuite.

Castiel takes his time, each footstep slow and unhurried. He unbuttons his waistcoat, undoes his bowtie, pauses just outside the door to unlace and remove his expensive dress shoes.

The door is silent as he pushes it open further, and he steps onto the marble floor on quiet, socked feet. The view that greets him is nothing short of stunning.

Dean stands beneath the spray, water streaming over his body and eyes blissfully closed. Castiel takes a second to admire the defined muscles, the slight softness to his stomach, the freckles that give way to paler skin near his waist and the curve of his ass that had only been hinted at by the cling of wet boxers. Water runs in rivulets over his skin, collects in droplets on the clear glass, and beads on his lashes as he opens his eyes and looks at Castiel.

For a second, they’re both still—Castiel standing just inside the doorway, and Dean relaxed and exquisite behind the glass partition. He’s torn between wanting to stay here and catalogue Dean’s beauty, as breathtaking and unconventional as it is, and stepping right inside that shower to put his hands on Dean’s skin and figure out just how to take him apart.

Dean makes the decision for him. “I don’t have all night,” he jokes, half turning away. “I’m gonna turn into a prune in here if you don’t hurry up.”

And that’s all the invitation that Castiel needs. He undresses as quickly as he can, uncaring of where his clothes end up, and pulls open the glass door. As soon as he steps into the shower, the full force of Dean’s scent hits him, amplified by the steam of the shower, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“Good to see you’re feeling a little more like yourself,” he says wryly as he steps up behind Dean. He sets his hands on the omega’s hips, gently but confidently. This time, Dean’s reaction is almost negligible—he goes still for the barest fraction of a second, but then leans back into Castiel’s hands. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes in profile and adorned with crystalline water droplets.

“It feels better not having to put on a show in front of all those people,” he says quietly. “I may not know you very well yet, but at least I can drop the act around you.” Castiel watches as the corner of Dean’s mouth that’s visible to him curls into a grin. “You knew I was a little shit before you picked me as a mate.”

“Yes, yes I did,” Castiel says, amused. He steps closer to Dean, his chest pressing into the omega’s back, erection grazing against his ass. Dean doesn’t move away—if anything, he lets out a tiny sigh and leans back into the touch—and so Castiel presses his lips against his new mate’s shoulder. “I appreciate your obedience during the ceremony, though. It gives me hope that we can find a compromise. Like I said, I don’t want you to stop being yourself, but I do need you to respect me.”

Dean hums, his eyes closed again. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had enough of that ‘obedience’ bullshit for one day, though.” The smell of worn leather and vanilla curls around Castiel, mixing with his own whiskey-soaked scent. When Dean looks back over his shoulder, he has one eyebrow raised. “Anyway, you planning on actually joining me under the water, or lingering just out of it like a weirdo?”

He’s definitely making up for the earlier obedience with his sharp wit, but Castiel lets it slide. His mouth will be preoccupied soon anyway. Not one to back down from a challenge, Castiel presses even closer to Dean, nudging him forward half a step until they’re both under the water.

Castiel closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, simply letting himself feel Dean’s weight, the warmth of his skin, the jut of hipbones beneath his palms. When he shifts his hips, his cock slides between Dean’s cheeks, and the omega lets out a quiet moan that’s almost lost beneath the sound of the water. The scent of caramel permeates the air, even stronger than before.

Feeling emboldened, Castiel starts to let his hands wander. One drifts up Dean’s stomach, while the other slides down his thigh. Fingertips brush coarse, wiry hair, and then graze against Dean’s erection. The action elicits a shudder from the omega, and he arches back against Castiel. _Perfect_. He’s so fucking perfect.

His fingers skim along the length of Dean’s cock, up to the tip and back down to the root, just the barest of touches. His other hand splays possessively across Dean’s chest, keeping him pressed back against Castiel. “Does that feel good?” he murmurs against Dean’s skin, and feels him nod.

The touches are just teasing, but soon enough they graduate into something more solid. He tightens his fingers around Dean, strokes him slowly and directs them both out of the spray a little so he can kiss along the curve of his omega’s throat. He bares it beautifully, one hand wrapped around Castiel’s forearm for support. The stunning responses keep Castiel enthralled for a little while, but soon enough, he wants more.

He wants to _taste_.

“Dean,” he murmurs, then drags his teeth lightly over the skin of his shoulder. Dean groans quietly, but nods; he heard.

“Put your hands on the wall of the shower,” he instructs, giving Dean’s cock one last, slow stroke before lets his hands fall away.

Dean whimpers, and he bites down on his bottom lip, but obeys. Out of the spray, water still running in rivulets from his hair and down his skin, he stands with his hands against the wall and his legs spread and waits. Castiel takes a moment to just admire him—his beauty, his submission. For someone so vehemently opposed to following orders, he becomes beautifully pliant after some simple and well-placed touches. Just as Castiel had suspected.

“Good boy,” he whispers, almost quietly enough for it to get lost in the sound of the shower spray.

Dean shivers.

Slowly, carefully, Castiel sinks to his knees behind Dean. He ghosts his fingers up Dean’s calves, the backs of his thighs, until he’s splaying his fingers over Dean’s cheeks and gently spreading them to reveal his hole, already wet with slick.

“Castiel?” Dean asks, his voice rough. His hips cant back against Castiel’s hands. “What are you— _oh!”_

Castiel leans in and licks directly over Dean’s hole, and the rest of the omega’s question is lost to a low, dirty moan. The alpha smirks and then applies himself with more determination, focused solely on one thing: making Dean come apart.

He alternates between small, teasing licks and broad strokes and the occasional press of his tongue just past Dean’s rim that leaves his legs trembling. His omega tastes unlike anything that has ever graced Castiel’s tongue, and the beautiful sounds that fall from his lips have him feeling giddy, powerful with the knowledge that this beautiful, wilful creature is his and his alone.

He rims Dean until he loses track of how long it’s been, until the feeling and the sound of the water beating against his back has faded away into unimportance, until Dean is riding back against his face and repeating his name like it’s a prayer, fingers clawing at slick shower tiles. He takes Dean right up to the edge, and then he pulls back, watching as Dean shudders and groans at the sudden absence of touch.

“You… _motherfucker_.”

The insult’s impact is lessened by Dean’s gasps for breath and the scent of arousal and slick that still hangs in the air. Castiel chuckles. “That’s not what you were saying a few seconds ago, _kotenok_.”

Dean straightens up on wobbly legs and glares over his shoulder at Castiel, but there’s no heat in his green-gold eyes. “Don’t get too full of yourself, _Krushnic_.” He turns around as Castiel climbs back to his feet, and suddenly they’re face to face again. Dean’s cheeks are beautifully flushed, and the scent of Castiel’s arousal almost doubles in strength as he sees the full extent of the effect he’s had on Dean.

The omega blushes darker, and he wets his lips. “We should take this back to the bedroom,” he says, and that sounds like the best idea anyone has had all day.

Castiel shuts off the water, then takes Dean’s hand and leads him out of the shower. Dean had dried off somewhat while he was standing against the wall, having been mostly out of the shower’s spray for the last while, but Castiel pauses to grab a towel and dry himself off. He winces at the red marks on his knees—he’s not as young as he used to be, but god was it worth it to have elicited those reactions from Dean.

Dean gives his hair a quick rub with a towel, then disappears into the bedroom while Castiel is drying. Once he’s done, Castiel follows, finding the omega lying on his stomach in the middle of the bed, his tanned, freckled skin standing out against the crisp white sheets. “I don’t think I’ve ever touched something this soft,” he says with a grin when he sees Castiel. He rolls over onto his back, and lets out a happy sigh.

The sheets _are_ nice, and Castiel makes a mental note to ask the staff about them, as he drags his fingertips over the covers at the edge of the bed, but they’re not what he’s focused on right now. No, he’s focused on the man who is about to become his mate both by law and in blood, who is watching him with hooded green eyes and a lazy, pleased smile.

He’s learned more about Dean today than he has in the days they had spent back at home, and it’s _intriguing_.

Castiel climbs onto the mattress, Dean’s gaze following him like a hot brand on his skin as he moves closer, until he’s directly over Dean and caging him in with his arms. Still, no point of their body touches. After a few moments, Dean arches up restlessly, and his lips part. “You gonna fuck me, or just keep staring?” he goads, a hint of leather lacing through the scent that is rich with heady, wicked caramel.

“ _U vas takoye zhe otnosheniye, kak i krasota_ ,” Castiel replies wryly, and then he leans down to kiss Dean, pressing their bodies together and relishing the rumble of Dean’s moan against his bare skin. Dean’s arms come up to circle Castiel’s neck, and he can feel the omega hard against his hip, the richness of his slick lingering in the air. This is exactly how Castiel had wished, prayed, that tonight would go, and it’s exceeded every single one of his hopes.

He’s content just to kiss Dean for now, but after a few minutes the omega shifts restlessly, raking his fingers through Castiel’s hair and nipping at his bottom lip and spreading his legs so that Castiel is settled perfectly between them. It’s not a subtle message, and Castiel smirks against Dean’s mouth. Pushy, _impatient_ omega.

Still, he acquiesces, shifting his weight onto one elbow so that his other can skim over Dean’s skin, over his chest and past where his cock is bobbing in the air, down to his hole. It’s already open and wet with slick, and when Castiel’s fingertips brush over it, Dean gasps against his mouth.

That sound is nothing compared to the desperate whimper that falls from his lips when Castiel slides two fingers inside. He’s already open from arousal, and there’s almost no resistance to Castiel’s two fingers. When he adds a third, Dean groans and lets his head tip back against the mattress. His cheeks are flushed, and he bites down on his bottom lip when Castiel crooks his fingers against his prostate, muffling an absolutely filthy sounding moan.

“I want to hear you,” Castiel growls, nipping at the bolt of Dean’s jaw and crooking his fingers again.

This time, Dean’s moan is crystal-clear, his hooded eyes streaked with gold. “Fuck me,” he groans, and it’s _so_ close to begging that Castiel has to take a moment to compose himself.

“ _Kak khotite_ ,” he purrs. Dean whines when he pulls his fingers out, but Castiel doesn’t waste time, splaying his slick fingers over Dean’s hip and shifting him into the right position. He grabs the base of his cock—and _fuck_ , he’s so hard that even that first touch makes him hiss in pleasure—and guides it to Dean’s hole.

For a few seconds, he just teases Dean; slides the head back and forth over his slick entrance, pressing forward just slightly and then pulling back again. It drives Dean wild, until he’s almost trembling, both legs wrapped tightly around Castiel’s waist.

“Castiel, Cas, fuck— _please_ ,” he gasps out into the air between them, and it’s the _please_ that sends Castiel over the edge. In one long stroke, he sheathes himself fully inside his omega. It’s so hot, so fucking _tight_ , Dean’s muscles clenching around him, that he presses his forehead against Dean’s and just has to _breathe_. Fucking hell, he’d known that the man was sex on legs, he should’ve realised that actually getting to _fuck_ him would be an otherworldly experience.

Dean’s breath is coming fast, in quick hitches and small moans that accompany every minute shift of Castiel’s hips. He seems to adjust to the stretch slowly, and Castiel gives him time—until Dean rocks his hips up and takes him in impossibly deeper, and Castiel knows that he can’t stand to stay still any longer.

He shifts his hips back, pulls out halfway and rocks back in, still just getting used to the sensation of Dean so tight around him, so responsive with the way his breath hitches and the way his hands grab at Castiel’s neck, his shoulders, his back. It’s like he can’t decide where to leave them. Castiel understands the feeling—there’s so much of Dean he wants to touch, all at once. Instead, he settles for pressing his chest against Dean’s and rocking into him, pressing kisses along the exquisite curve of his neck.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to push for more; he begins to rock his hips up to meet each one of Castiel’s long, steady thrusts, and his lips part around a moan as Castiel gets the angle _just right_.

“Look at me,” Castiel orders, pulling back and propping himself up on his elbows so that he can see all of Dean’s face. He keeps the angle that he’d discovered, fucks Dean slowly and relentlessly, and watches as Dean’s lashes flutter.

When Dean finally meets Castiel’s gaze, it feels as though it knocks all the breath out of him. His eyes are more gold than green, and they’re blissful, soft, _almost_ submissive. Even as he watches, Dean focuses less on the sensations and more on Castiel’s face, and some of that softness starts to fade.

Either way, he’s beautiful. Castiel isn’t going to last much longer.

He kisses Dean, hungrily and passionately, and reaches down to slide his hand along Dean’s thigh. The muscles there bunch and flex as Dean rocks up to meet every thrust—coming harder, faster now, Castiel can’t contain himself, he’s getting lost in the memory of green-gold eyes—and he relishes in the feeling for a moment before slipping his hand between their bodies to wrap around Dean’s cock.

Dean swears against Castiel’s lips, and his fingers grab and claw at the alpha’s back, leaving delicious lines of pain that only fuel him. He can feel his knot swelling, dragging against Dean’s rim with every thrust. The rocking of Dean’s hips falters, but he moans as Castiel redoubles his efforts, stroking Dean in time to his thrusts.

It feels so _perfect_ , his omega tight around him, and Castiel can’t stop himself from trailing his lips along Dean’s jaw and down to his neck. So much beautiful, unmarked skin, and it’s all his.

“ _Krasivaya_ ,” he whispers against Dean’s skin. “ _Moy_.”

“Cas, please,” Dean gasps, and Castiel can feel him tightening around his cock, his whole body tensing with his impending orgasm until it crests. Dean comes over Castiel’s fist with the alpha’s name on his lips, and that’s enough to send him over the edge.

His knot swells fully, and Castiel locks it inside Dean with a filthy grind of his hips. As his orgasm hits him, dragging him along in the undertow, his instincts kick in, and he sinks his teeth into the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder.

It’s exactly where he’d known he wanted to bite Dean as soon as he saw him.

This is his mate. Dean is his, and his alpha howls its approval.

The sensation of the bond forming is unlike anything Castiel has ever felt before—it feels like every molecule of his body is being rewritten, and he shudders through it, pressing his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. His omega clings to him, and Castiel can tell from his twisting, changing scent that Dean is just as overwhelmed. They ride it out together, until the feeling slowly ebbs away, and he’s left with a bone-deep exhaustion and a feeling of satisfaction and completion that sinks all the way into the core of his being.

Dean lets out a shuddering exhale, and all the tension leaves his body. Castiel props himself up onto his elbows—partially so that he can look at his mate, and partially so as not to squash him. The mark on Dean’s neck is barely bleeding, and Castiel stares at it reverentially for a second. This means that Dean is _his_ , that anyone who sees him will know that he has an alpha, anyone who smells him will know that he’s _Castiel’s_.

Beneath the fading caramel and vanilla and the smell of leather, Dean now carries an undertone of whiskey woven into the intricacies of his scent. It’s perfect.

And then Dean blinks his eyes open, and his irises are completely gold, and Castiel feels a purr rumble through his chest. He knows his own must be completely red in response, but he can’t help it, not when he’s still high on the euphoria of sex and mating and seeing Dean looking like _this_.

His mate still looks a little dazed and disoriented, so Castiel is the one to take charge of carefully manoeuvring them both under the covers, and turning so that Dean is sprawled atop Castiel. They’ll be knotted together for a while, and every fibre of Castiel’s being right now is telling him to _sleep_.

“How do you feel?” he asks in the quiet that follows, carding his fingers through Dean’s damp hair. He feels the omega inhale, then exhale.

“Weird. ‘N my neck hurts,” he mumbles against Castiel’s chest. The alpha feels a quick pang of guilt.

“We’ll get it dressed in the morning.” Neither of them are in any state to wait until they untie—Castiel’s eyelids are already feeling heavy. He fumbles for the light switch above the headboard until he manages to turn off the room’s soft lighting. Now, it’s mostly dark, apart from the ambient light filtering through the windows from the still-moving city beneath them. Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders, holding him close. “Good night, _moy muzh_ ,” he whispers into the darkness.

Dean is already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya khochu potselovat’ tebya: I would like to kiss you.  
> Kotenok: kitten  
> U vas takoye zhe otnosheniye, kak I krasota: You have as much attitude as you do beauty.  
> Kak khotite: As you wish.  
> Krasivaya: beautiful  
> Moy: mine  
> Moy muzh: translates literally to 'my husband,' but is used here as 'my mate'
> 
> The moral of the story here is that Cas slips into Russian a lot when he's turned on--but he also knows he can use it to say things to Dean without Dean knowing exactly what he's saying ;)


	5. Chapter 5

Dean is warm.

Everything around him is warmth, and he sighs contentedly, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of his pillow. Life is soft, and warm, and he could honestly stay here forever, in the hazy in-between of awake and asleep. Blissfully drifting, eyes closed against golden light, against the outside world.

He stretches languidly, then settles himself again. If he doesn’t think, then surely sleep will pull him back in with welcoming arms. It certainly isn’t something he’s opposed to—his body aches, in a good way, and remaining vestiges of exhaustion still linger around the edges of his mind like a fog that refuses to dissipate. If he could just drift off back to sleep for a while longer, surely he’ll feel even better the next time he wakes up.

His mind made up, Dean presses back against the solid warmth behind him and stifles a yawn.

Then the arm around his waist tightens, and suddenly Dean is _very_ awake.

The events of last night come flooding back all at once—the ceremony, the consummation, the _bite_. Castiel kissing him, pressing foreign words into his skin, placing his claim on Dean’s throat and rewiring his chemistry, tying them together for the rest of their lives.

 _Oh god_.

He’s gone completely stiff in Castiel’s arms, but that’s not enough—he scrambles out of the hold and sits up against the headboard, the covers pooled around his waist. With tentative fingers, he reaches up to touch his neck, where pain throbs dully beneath the skin. His fingertips come away flaked with dried blood.

When he looks over at Castiel, he finds blue eyes staring right back.

The alpha hasn’t moved, still stretched out beneath the covers, but he’s watching Dean. His scent is calm, steady, all whiskey and gunpowder and—

 _Leather_.

The trace of leather that Dean has known since birth, that has stayed with him all his life and now also belongs to Castiel. To his _mate_. 

“Good morning,” Castiel says quietly. He blinks, then, when Dean doesn’t respond, asks, “How are you feeling?”

Dean’s _feelings_ must be projected all over his scent. He clenches his jaw and looks away from the alpha. His neck throbs. “Fine,” he says.

Castiel hums. The sheets rustle as he finally moves, sitting up beside Dean. God, he smells _good_ —Dean wants nothing more than to press his nose against the alpha’s throat, to breathe in that scent of _mate_ and learn every intricate detail of it, every part that is _Castiel_ and how the parts that are _Dean_ fit in.

But as great as Castiel smells, and as amazing as last night had felt… he still can’t wrap his head around the knowledge that he’s mated, that he’s so inextricably tied to this man.

Castiel seems to realize that. He sits close to Dean, but not touching, and his gaze is steady and unwavering. They stay like that in silence for a few minutes; Castiel watching Dean, Dean watching the minimalist artwork on the far wall.

Castiel is the one who breaks the silence.

“You’re still you, you know.”

It brings Dean out of his daze, and he looks over at Castiel, raising one eyebrow.

The alpha doesn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little. “Just because you’re mated, it doesn’t mean that you’ve become someone different. You’re still you, you just… smell different. Nothing is going to change between us because of that, I promise.”

It should be reassuring. The promise that nothing will change should set him at ease. But there’s still that niggling feeling in the back of his mind, the distress at what should be a colossal change. It had felt so _intense_ last night, and Dean still feels it, like a hyperawareness at the edges of his consciousness and a deep-seated urge to be close to his alpha. He’s not sure if that will ever go away, or if it can even be dismissed that easily. Does Castiel not feel it? Or is he just better at ignoring it?

Before he can ask, Castiel moves, stretching his arms above his head. It sends his scent curling into the air, and Dean remembers touching him, pressing his fingers into warm, tanned skin. His words disappear from his tongue, and Castiel slants him a smug look.

“Did I get it right? Is that what you’re worried about?”

Stupid, smug, _perceptive_ alpha. Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, instead of answering the question. It’s all the answer that Castiel needs, of course, but Dean won’t give him the satisfaction of confirming that he’s right.

He shuffles over to the edge of the bed and swings his legs off, but as soon as he sinks his toes into the plush carpet and stands, Dean feels the ache in his body _properly_. His legs, his back, his ass, it all aches comfortably. He’s never quite understood the concept of ‘walking funny’ after sex, but he’s starting to get it now.

The smug vibes that he’s getting from Castiel only increase, and he turns to glare at the alpha. “You shut your mouth,” he grumbles, then tries his best to walk normally as he makes his way over to the ensuite. From Castiel’s snort of amusement, he doesn’t achieve it.

The bathroom is a private space, free from Castiel’s eyes and words and uncanny ability to know just what Dean is thinking. He pulls the door closed behind him, then turns towards the shower—

And catches sight of himself in the mirror.

His hair is sticking up every which way, there’s come crusted on his stomach and between his thighs (which, _gross_ ), and when he turns, he spots little finger-shaped bruises on his ass. But most noticeably, and the thing that sends Dean reeling with nausea and giddiness in equal parts, is the bite mark on his neck.

It already looks partially healed, even though it’s still smeared with dried blood, and Dean can’t stop looking at it. It’s real, concrete proof that he’s mated.

He takes a minute to stare, his hands braced against the sink, then drags himself away and starts the shower.

The hot water feels fantastic on his aching body, and Dean tries to focus on that instead of the mess that his mind is currently. After all, Castiel had been patient, and let Dean be snarky or take the lead in places, and the sex had been _amazing_ , even if he only has a few encounters to compare it to. Overall, it had been a good night—better than he could have ever let himself hope when he first heard he was going to be mated off to a total stranger.

But he still can’t shake this… funk.

Dean shoves those thoughts away and reaches for the body wash instead. The smell of sex and Castiel’s scent quickly disappear as Dean scrubs his body clean, but the whiskey undertone in his scent remains. It’ll just be something he’ll have to get used to—all of this will be. He dabs gently at the bite, careful to keep the soap away from it, until the water streaming down his chest is no longer tinged with red, then closes his eyes and lets the spray wash over him.

As much as he wishes he could, though, Dean can’t stay in the shower all day. He reluctantly turns the water off and steps out, just as the bathroom door cracks open.

“I’ve ordered room service for breakfast, so it should be here soon,” comes Castiel’s voice. “You can get started when it arrives, I need to shower. Do you mind if I come in?”

He’d seen Dean naked last night—had rimmed him in this very room—and now he’s asking if he can come in. _At least he’s keeping to his word of not touching me after the consummation._

“Nope,” he replies, though he does grab a towel and wrap it around his waist before the door swings open fully.

While Dean now smells mostly like coconut, Castiel still smells of come and slick and sex, and the scent of it in the bathroom is overpowering. If the alpha is affected by it, though, it doesn’t show. Instead, his eyes focus on Dean’s neck.

There’s a quick dash of something across his scent, but it’s too overwhelmed by everything else for Dean to pinpoint it, and Castiel quickly reins it in. “Does the mark still hurt?” he asks. Dean shrugs.

“Stings a little, yeah.” It’s the truth—mating bites heal pretty quickly, and apparently Dean’s is no exception, but that doesn’t mean it’s pain-free.

Castiel frowns. “I asked that they send up some dressing materials with breakfast so that I can clean it for you, and I can request some painkillers if you would like?”

Having the alpha ask him such earnest questions while standing buck naked in the doorway is making it a little hard for Dean to focus. “Sure,” he mutters.

The short answer seems to appease Castiel, who nods and steps further into the bathroom, moving past Dean and over to the shower. God, he smells even better up close. Dean doesn’t wait around for him to say anything else, just hightails it out of the bathroom without another word. It’s so hard to think with the fresh, new scent of _mate_ in his nose.

The bedroom still smells like the two of them, but it’s easier for Dean to push it to the back of his mind as he dries himself off, then hunts around the suite for some new clothes—there’s no way in hell he’s getting back into the monkey suit from yesterday. He’s zipping up his jeans when there’s a quick knock on the apartment door, and he makes his way over to open it.

There’s a gleaming silver cart waiting outside the door, and Dean is quick to grab it and wheel it inside, the two security guards flanking the door hardly paying him any attention. Whatever is under the cloches smells fucking heavenly, and Dean’s stomach rumbles loudly as he wheels it over to the large dining table.

First things first, though. He reaches for the medical kit beside one of the cloches and opens it up, then sets about cleaning his wound. _It’s quicker for me to do it myself_ , he tells himself, but really, he doesn’t know if he wants anyone else touching the mark right now. It’s too vulnerable.

 _He’s_ too vulnerable.

The saline stings against the open wound, and Dean hisses through his teeth, but it’s not the worst pain he’s ever endured by a long shot, and soon enough he’s got it all cleaned and dressed and hidden away from sight. Much better. Now he can turn his attention to the food.

He’s already halfway through his huge breakfast when Castiel emerges from the shower, still naked and this time with his damp hair sticking up. The alpha makes a beeline straight to the closet where Dean had found his clothes, and Dean watches him through the open bedroom door as he dresses. It’s nice to be the one watching for once, instead of constantly being under the scrutiny of that intense blue gaze, and he admires Castiel as he dresses himself in a shirt and slacks.

It’s only when Castiel turns towards Dean, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, that he notices the staring, and he smiles. “Enjoying your breakfast?” he asks as he makes his way over to the table. Dean, with his mouth full of fried eggs and bacon, just nods.

“Yes, I’ve always enjoyed the food here, though I do think Pamela’s is better,” Castiel says conversationally as he sits down beside Dean. “You don’t have to stop eating, I can—“ He goes silent as he notices the opened medical kit, then looks up at Dean’s neck, where a dressing neatly obscures the claiming mark of his bite. His eyes narrow.

Despite the nervousness beginning to churn in his gut, Dean holds his ground. “I’m not completely useless,” he says once he’s swallowed his food. “I know how to dress a wound. I don’t need to be babysat.”

“I see.” Castiel’s words are slow, thoughtful. He’s not pleased, that much is for sure, but Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t want anyone looking at it right now—it’s bad enough that his scent is already screaming _newly mated!_ at everyone. “Next time, if I make a request, I would appreciate it if you didn’t go behind my back and do the opposite.”

“Sounded more like a suggestion to me,” Dean mutters into his eggs. Gunpowder laces Castiel’s scent for a moment, then settles, and he reaches for his own cloche-covered plate. They eat in silence, and Dean finds that the food serves as a good distraction for the messy tangle of his mind. By the time he’s finished everything on his plate, he’s pleasantly full, and he sits back in his chair and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t get long to relax before he hears the decisive sound of silverware on china, and slits one eye open to see that Castiel has also finished his breakfast. “Not as good as Pamela’s,” Dean agrees, and watches as the corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks up.

Once they’re done with breakfast, there’s really nothing much more for them to do here. Now that they’re dressed again, with Castiel’s mark on Dean’s neck, he once again finds himself unsure of just what their dynamic is. It had been so easy last night, with the kisses and touches and wordless communication, but in the light of day, and about to face the outside world once again…

Dean really doesn’t know how to feel. About himself, about his new scent, about _Castiel_.

They take it in turns using the bathroom, brushing their teeth and fixing their hair, then finish getting dressed; Cas in his suit jacket and Dean in a leather jacket over his t-shirt and jeans. They don’t really speak—what is there to say? How do you talk to a man you only met a few days ago and are now mated to? Where do you _start_?

Dean tries to keep his anxiety, his turmoil, out of his scent as he waits for Castiel by the door. This whole situation is easier to deal with in their own isolated bubble, but now… Now they have to face the rest of the world.

Castiel gives him a small, quick smile as he straightens his jacket, then strides over to join Dean by the front door. “Ready to go?”

As much as Dean hates himself for it, he breathes in, letting Castiel’s mated scent wash over him, then nods. It instantly puts him at ease, and while he hates that it’s fucking around with his thoughts and his body chemistry so much, if it’s going to make the rest of this morning easier to get through then so be it. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

Castiel takes Dean’s hand and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze, then opens the door.

It opens onto the hallway, empty save for the two guards who nod respectfully to Castiel as they pass. Dean’s jitters increase as they step over the threshold and into the hallway, but he holds his head high and squeezes Castiel’s hand like a lifeline. He’s hyperaware of his own scent.

The ride down to the lobby seems to take forever, and Dean bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, needing an outlet for his nervous energy. Castiel glances over at him, but doesn’t say anything, just leaves him be. No doubt the alpha is starting to get an idea of how Dean operates, which he’s thankful for. When the elevator doors open, Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s hand—enough to command, but not control.

Just this once, Dean is happy to let Castiel take the lead. The less talking he can do, the better. They step out of the elevator, and two new guards immediately flank them, matching them step for step. His shoes squeak against the marble floor as they walk across the lobby to the catered lounge area by the front windows, and he feels achingly out of place compared to the people they pass who seem to ooze money and power.

It’s still hard to wrap his head around the fact that he’s _mated_ to one of those people—someone who could easily buy this whole hotel, who commands the largest mafia empire on the east coast, who commands respect and attention with a single look. Even now, those people who Dean had pegged as rich and powerful are turning their heads to watch them pass, whispering to each other behind raised hands and slanted looks.

The witnesses catch sight of them and stand—Michael and Gabriel Krushnic from one couch, Samuel Campbell from the one opposite, and John Winchester follows a second later from a nearby armchair. Dean and Castiel stop just a few feet away, and Castiel lets go of his hand, winding an arm around his waist and pulling him in close instead. The point of contact helps, but then Dean catches the look John is giving him, all judgement and condescension. His cheeks burn, and he looks down at his shoes.

“Congratulations on your mating, brother,” Michael says with a solemn nod of his head. Gabriel chimes in with a, “Yeah, congrats on tying the knot!”, and Dean snorts at the ripple of warring annoyance and amusement that he picks up in Castiel’s scent. Annoying siblings are universal, apparently, no matter how rich you are.

Samuel and John stay silent—when Dean chances a glance up, John is still watching them intensely. Castiel must see it too, because he tightens his possessive grip on Dean’s hip. “Thank you,” he acknowledges. “The bond has been consummated, as you can no doubt smell. I trust Gabriel to oversee the last of the witnesses’ paperwork, as Dean and I would like to return home.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to make another remark, but seems to think better of it when Castiel levels a glare at him. “Sure thing, boss,” he says instead. “Enjoy the honeymoon.”

If they weren’t in public, Dean is sure that the alpha would roll his eyes. As it is, he just says, “Thank you, Gabe, and thank you to all of you for—“

“I want to see it.”

Dean grits his teeth at the sound of his father’s voice. John has his arms folded and chin lifted, pinning Castiel with a challenging gaze. It’s colossally fucking stupid—Castiel must be twenty years younger and much stronger, and despite how considerate he’s been in the past twenty-four hours, Dean can’t forget that he’s powerful and ruthless and isn’t the Alpha of the Krushnic pack just because of sheer luck.

Not that Dean is surprised by this display from John, though. His ego has always been too fucking big. Emboldened by Castiel’s protective arm around his waist, Dean bares his teeth a little. Castiel doesn’t react. “Want to see what?” he asks, calmly and coolly.

John snorts. “I want to see the bite and make sure you’re really bonded and that the Winchester pack isn’t going to get fucked over.”

 _He wants to see the bite_. Dean can taste burned caramel on the air, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s his own scent. He doesn’t even want Castiel looking at it or touching it right now, let alone anyone else. Castiel’s fingers tighten on his hip as Dean presses against his side, and he takes a half step forward.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, but it carries all the steely authority of a man who is _not to be fucked with_.

“You will not see the bite. It is private, and Dean wishes to keep it covered for now. You can smell that we are mated from our scents, and that will have to be proof enough for you. You will _not_ get anywhere with me by attempting to throw your weight around. The only reason I would ‘fuck you over,’” and here, his voice becomes a dangerous growl, alpha red threading into his irises, “is if you continue to attempt to undermine my authority and threaten my pack and my mate. Do not forget who you are dealing with, John Winchester. Just because I have taken your son as my mate does _not_ mean I am kindly disposed towards you.”

 _Jesus Christ_.

John takes half a step back. For a few seconds, he just stares, his jaw clenched and alpha red bleeding into his irises in response to Castiel’s. Finally, he backs down, and nods his head stiffly. “Fine,” he growls. Without another word, he turns and strides away. Grandpa Campbell watches him go, turns back to look at Dean and Castiel, then gives Castiel a quick, respectful nod and takes his leave.

“At least one of them knows how to conduct himself, even if he doesn’t like me,” Castiel mutters. In only a matter of seconds, his scent calms, and he pulls Dean back in against his side.

Dean, admittedly, is still reeling from the display of power and confidence that Castiel had shown. Fucking _hell_ , that had been hot. He swallows, and doesn’t miss the quick look his mate gives him when a hint of arousal tinges his scent. “Shut up,” Dean mutters, his cheeks turning pink.

“Didn’t say anything,” Castiel retorts in a whisper, the corners of his eyes crinkled in what Dean now understands is the only way he smiles in public. He turns his attention back to the two other Krushnic brothers, who are watching the exchange with interest.

“Keep a special eye on Winchester for the next few days,” Castiel tells them. “I don’t want him getting any ideas, and I want to make it clear that he’s in no position to push the Krushnic pack around. The rest of our business discussions can wait until we’re not in public, but I’m not pleased with his attitude.”  
  
“Guy’s a dickhead,” Gabe agrees, then grins. “No offence, Dean.”

“None taken,” Dean replies breezily, and Gabriel’s grin widens.

“I like this one, Cassie,” he tells Castiel. “He’s gonna keep you on your toes. Hopefully in a good way.”

“Indeed,” Castiel says. The look he gives Dean, and the effortless way that his gaze seems to lay him bare, has him feeling more naked than he had this morning. He shuffles his feet, uncomfortable beneath the gazes of all three Krushnics, then clears his throat.

“So, we gonna get this show on the road or what?”

The rest of their goodbyes are brief, and then Castiel and Dean are making their way out the front doors of the hotel to the waiting car. They’re flanked by guards, all stern-looking alphas in suits, and it must draw some attention because people on the street look in their direction, and some lift their phones to snap photos. The flash of a camera goes off in Dean’s periphery, but before he can look towards where it came from, Castiel is guiding him gently into the car.

The alpha climbs in after him and pulls the door closed, and then they’re pulling out onto the street. Dean looks through the tinted glass at the handful of people who watch the car leave. “Do they know who you are?”

Castiel doesn’t turn to look, but seems to know exactly who Dean is talking about. “It’s highly likely. The Krushnic family is exceedingly wealthy, so we’re known for that, even without our infamy as one of the largest and most successful Packs in the country. No doubt some civilians suspect the truth as to what is behind our wealth, but…” Castiel smiles, all satisfaction and sharp edges. “We give ‘benefits’ to enough politicians and law enforcement officers that that will never become an issue.”

Jesus. The scope of Castiel’s pack makes the Winchesters’ automobile fencing operation and occasional drug trafficking look like child’s play. No wonder John had wanted to make connections with the Krushnics to try and return the pack to how it had been when Grandpa Campbell had been the Alpha. Dean gives a low-pitched whistle. “Very impressive. I feel like I’ve mated royalty,” he adds sarcastically.

Castiel chuckles. “Perhaps you have,” is all he says.

They fall into silence as Benny navigates them back out of the city. Eventually, they begin to pass through areas Dean hasn’t seen before, and the threat of the blindfold begins to linger at the back of his mind. Is Castiel going to make him wear it again?

He tries to keep the nervous anxiety out of his scent, but Castiel notices anyway.

“I’m not going to blindfold you,” he says quietly, and he reachs out to place his hand reassuringly on Dean’s knee. “You’re my mate, you’re part of my pack now. I am placing my trust in you, as you have in me, and I expect that that trust will not be broken. As such, I don’t see any need to keep hiding the location of my home from you.”

For a few seconds, Dean just stares at Castiel. It’s a weighted gesture of trust, one that the alpha would not give lightly, and its meaning is not lost on him. “Thank you,” he says eventually, and Castiel nods in return.

They drive for at least another thirty minutes, and Dean watches the changing scenery outside the car with idle curiosity. Castiel’s home must be over an hour away from Dean’s old home, where the Winchester pack operates out of—though the detours Benny had taken when picking him up that first time had probably made it feel even longer. It’s also in a much nicer area than the Winchester house, and Dean hums as they turn right, up a long driveway flanked by trees, with no signage to be seen.

The metal gate (the furthest Dean has been from the house apart from this trip) comes into view after a few minutes of driving. It slides open smoothly as they approach, and though Dean doesn’t turn to watch, must close immediately after they’ve passed through. It’s a much fancier system than what Dean has become used to in recent times—and that’s only the security setup that he can _see_. He has no doubt that there are hundreds of cameras and sensors set up all along the driveway, across the perimeter fence and out into the woods.

It starts to sink in, just how much of a target Castiel is, as the Alpha of the Krushnic pack.

“Home sweet home,” Castiel mutters as the car rolls to a stop in front of the house, and while his tone seems flat, Dean can see the tension that has left his shoulders, the ease that has crept back into his scent. He’s relaxed—and so is Dean.

“Feels good to be home,” he agrees quietly.

Dean doesn’t turn to look at Castiel, but he can feel the weight of his gaze, the notes of surprise creeping into his scent. Sure, he may not have Sam here, or any of his friends from his old pack, but he trusts Castiel, and likes him better as pack Alpha than he had John. All in all… it’s not a bad place to be. 

Dean can see himself getting used to calling this place _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> This work will not be continued, and the completion status has been updated as a reflection of that decision. While it does have a rather open ending, please do not comment asking where the rest is, or for this to be continued. There will be no more. Sometimes life does not work out the way we want it to, and we have to make the best of things and move on. Your understanding is much appreciated, and I apologise to those who were invested in this work <3


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